


there is a fire in me

by suzukiblu



Series: firebender!Jet [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cultural Differences, Enemies to Friends, Firebender!Jet, Firebending & Firebenders, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Recovered Memories, Repressed Memories, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Katara’s fingers leave Jet’s temples and it is not just Lake Laogai that he remembers, not just the one made-up story to make what’s missing make sense that he forgets.





	1. mind control doesn’t work on people who think

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of an old (and now finally finished) fic. Back in the day on LJ calicojane put the idea of repressed firebender Jet into my head, and many many other people fed it. Considering his swords’ traditional style is apparently based in Northern Shaolin with a side of Seven Star Praying Mantis—as in, the same two styles of kung fu that firebending draws from—I really don’t think this is that much of a stretch anyway. 
> 
> Also, the Doom. I could not resist the Doom.

Katara’s fingers leave Jet’s temples and it is not just Lake Laogai that he remembers, not just the one made-up story to make what’s missing make sense that he forgets. 

“Katara . . .” he tries to start, tries to say, and his eyes widen in horror as his accent comes out all wrong, as something in his breath _changes_. “What did you _do_ to me?” he hisses, and then hisses louder in pain, doubling over and clutching at his throat, because whatever it is Katara did, it _burns_. 

He remembers his old name for the first time since he took the new one, and pales at the sound of it in his mind, too sharp and too short and too jag-edged. 

Not an Earth Kingdom name. 

Suddenly he understands why trying to remember before was too painful. 

They’re all staring at him. They’re all right here and they’re _staring_ at him, Katara and Sokka and Toph and Aang and—and—and _the others_ , his freedom fighters, his Longshot his Smellerbee his—his—

Oh spirits. Oh _spirits_. 

“Jet?” Katara asks hesitantly. “Do you remember?” 

“Yes,” he answers, despondent, and can’t keep his hands from shaking. Not at all can he keep them from shaking. 

He tells himself it’s a lie, it’s not right; it _can’t_ be right. The Dai Li did something to him, they made him think _this_ just like they made him think there was no war, just like they made him think a dozen other things, and if his hands won’t stop shaking if his body feels too hot if his breath is all wrong, that’s just a side effect of what they did to him. 

Of course it is. 

Jet tells himself that all the way to Lake Laogai, even with his hands shaking the whole time and all of the others giving him concerned looks and trying to stop him, to make sure he’s okay—they have to let him come, have to let him guide the way, but he can tell they don’t want to. He doesn’t care. He’s—he’s a freedom fighter, he’s a freedom fighter and the Avatar needs his help and he _won’t_ be left alone. 

He won’t let the Dai Li separate him from them with more lies. 

His hands stop shaking when the agents drop down from the ceiling, anyway, which is all that matters. 

The fight makes everything clear and crystal-sharp, and that helps. Jet’s _good_ in a fight, he always has been, ever since he can remember he’s always known how to fight even when he was so so young and new-orphaned he knew how to fight he knew just how to take a firebender down just how they would—

Maybe it doesn’t make everything clear. Jet forces the fuzziness out of his brain and out through his swords to tear into stone and hook wrists and ankles and send Dai Li agents crashing into the floor, the walls, each other, whatever’s most convenient. Underground with no trees _(no SUN, he’d never quite realized how much he’d always wanted the sun, how much he was always trying to get closer to it—)_ he still moves as easy as always with Longshot and Smellerbee and it isn’t hard to mesh with Katara and the others either; they’re a ragtag militia that moves better than a practiced army _(barbarians or not there is something to be said for fighting beside Water Tribe, their inescapable and so-natural RHYTHM; they say even the Air Nation was so accepting and fluid and strangely easy to move with, and Ear--)_

The thought tries to go somewhere bad and Jet takes a stone glove to the temple on purpose to knock it out of his head. Longshot breaks the follow-up glove with an arrow and Smellerbee catapults off his back to land on the agent’s head and sends him slamming to the ground and the air is full of stone and arrows and knives and Jet blinks up at the ceiling, dully, and sees his mother’s face clear in his mind for the first time in eight years. 

“Jet!” Smellerbee shouts, Katara shouts, Aang and maybe another person or two shouts, but Jet doesn’t try to get up until another glove punches Smellerbee in the gut and sends her reeling with a hard, short gasp of pain. At the sound of _that_ , he’s on his feet and his swords are up and the Dai Li agent who hit her, _he’s_ down and he’s staying that way. 

And Jet . . . he’s so angry. He’s so angry he can’t even _breathe_. 

The fight is a blur after that, fast and messy-graceful, the same war dance as always except Jet can’t breathe, really can’t breathe at all, not even when he and Aang chase after Long Feng and he shuts them in with him and he’s so—he’s so calm, so smooth, unruffled, he’s in Jet’s _brain_ and Jet—and Jet—he’s in his _brain_. 

For a moment, it’s actually easier to be gone. To be . . . to be meat, a puppet, a thing moved by other forces but that is the opposite of _everything_ he—everything he wants to be, everything he’s always tried to be, every—every—

He wears a red shirt. He’s always worn red, even when there were other options. Why would . . . why would he do that? 

“You’re a freedom fighter!” Aang shouts, and suddenly there’s just . . . _clarity_. Just for a second. 

It’s a good second. Jet holds on to that second, and uses it to put his sword through that bastard Long Feng’s throat. 

At least, that’s the plan. That’s the plan, but the bastard sidesteps his sword and stone hurls up out of the ground with one sharp gesture and Jet does not have the time to leap back, does not have the time to dodge, does not have the time to brace his remaining sword—does not have the time to _think_ , and it’s that that saves his life. 

Or ends it. 

He steps forward to meet the rock, and his empty hand shoves out into empty air and the motion is completely natural. Fire bursts into existence against stone, and Jet feels _alive_. Something explodes, or breaks, and it might be rock and it might be him. 

Jet’s fingers tremble, steam drifting up from their tips, and scorched and broken rock lies between himself and Long Feng. 

Who stares. 

Who stares, and is _shocked_. 

The Dai Li—the Dai Li didn’t put a lie in his head, Jet thinks from a faraway place, seeing that shock. Seeing the steam around his fingers. 

He doubles over and starts vomiting, and Aang runs to his side but doesn’t get close enough to touch and Long Feng runs off altogether and Jet just keeps throwing up until it’s nothing but bile. Bile that _sizzles_ on the damp stone floor, that makes him gag again just for that, and his mother’s face flashes in his mind again and he remembers her dark hand against his cheek and—and—

“Jet?” Aang tries, nervous and hesitant. All Jet can think about is hurting him. This is his fault. This is his _fault_ , his—his fault, the Avatar, everything would’ve been so much better without an _Avatar_ and—

The others break through the blocked door, Aang reaches out, and sparks spill out of Jet’s mouth. 

He stops thinking after that.


	2. can’t stop won’t stop not sure how to stop

Jet’s arms are burnt from the sparks. His arms are burnt and he’s all curled up and curled in and it hurts, it really _hurts_ —

“Jet?” Katara says, questioning and confused. He wants to scream at her, but he’s terrified of what will happen if he does. _What did you do to me, what did you DO to me, this isn’t ME!_

It really hurts. 

“Where the hell did _this_ come from?” Sokka asks incredulously. Jet hears him kick at the scorched and broken rocks on the floor, and would laugh except he’s terrified of that, too. He’s terrified of _everything_ , suddenly. 

His mom. 

He remembers what his mom looked like. 

“Jet,” Katara says again, and steps forward, and Jet freezes up in panic and Aang grabs her arm. 

“Katara, wait, it’s—I mean he’s—” Aang starts, and Jet _panics_. 

“No,” he tries to say, but instead he bolts. He should do something else, he shouldn’t run, but he _has_ to but he shouldn’t but he—

Wasn’t he the one who said he wouldn’t be separated from them, he thinks once he’s already lost them, somehow, staring around green halls and feeling sick and dizzy. That was him, right? He didn’t want . . . he didn’t want separated from them. 

Jet breathes out, ragged and soft, and burns his lips. 

And that. _That’s_ the real panic. 

He screams. He screams. He screams and _screams_ and the green light bleeds orange, the spark burns on his arms flare hot with pain, the whole corridor goes _blood_ and he can’t. stop. _screaming_. 

He can’t stop the fire. 

.

.

.

They’re arguing. They’re arguing _loudly_ , too loudly to be safe in a place like this, in these dank green halls full of enemies, but they’re arguing all the same because this—how could—how is he supposed to just give _up_ how is he supposed to just _accept_ —he doesn’t want this life, he never wanted it, he wants his _old_ life and for Father not to despise him for all those failures anymore and—and—

But he can’t have that. He can’t ever have that, can . . . 

Uncle stops arguing. It takes Zuko a second to realize it, but then he _feels_ it and . . . and . . . 

There is fire under Lake Laogai. Not lampfire. Not torchfire. 

There is _real fire_ under Lake Laogai. 

“Nephew—” Uncle starts, but Zuko is already tearing past him. He knows very little about the Dai Li, but he knows enough to know that this place is a hell and a prison and they do _something_ terrible down here. And he knows what it feels like when a firebender is desperate enough to lose control. 

All he can think is that one of his people is dying down here. 

. 

.

.

Jet is vomiting bile and sparks and his ears are full of roaring and he can’t . . . he can’t . . . he can’t think, can’t make . . . can’t make things work he can’t . . . 

There are footsteps and his skin hurts and his clothes are charred and he feels sick, he feels sick, he is _loathsome_ he is—

There are footsteps. 

Jet doesn’t even look up. He prays, _be Dai Li. be Dai Li. KILL me,_ but the footsteps are wrong. It’s not rock against rock; it’s not even real footsteps, it’s just the barest, barest scraping of a canvas sole across the stone. Maybe it’s Long Feng. Maybe _he’ll_ kill him, like he should have already. 

“Breathe,” a soft, raspy lisp hisses, and being addressed makes everything too—Jet lashes out, stupidly, and fire goes with it. He flashes to the scent of burning flesh and, horrified, knows it will come, knows it will—

A hand catches his wrist, and the fire goes out. Another hand grips the back of his neck, and he recoils tighter in on himself, wrapped up small to hide from everything. 

_“Breathe!”_ that raspy voice hisses again, and Jet’s terror rises, and the fire . . . the fire . . . 

The fire stays out. 

The voice is breathing. He can hear it breathing. 

He’s . . . breathing with it, Jet realizes belatedly, and it feels . . . familiar. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows this. 

He knows this. 

But he can’t let himself think about that. He really can’t. He isn’t even sure what he’s remembering but he _knows_ he can’t remember it, knows it’s not safe to. Can’t be. 

But the fire went away. How did the fire go away, he couldn’t turn it off, he didn’t actually—he didn’t know how to—

_Fire comes from the breath,_ something inside him says. 

Jet’s head snaps up, and he stares into shocked golden eyes. 

.

.

.

Jet would kill him, except every time he lets go of Lee the fire tries to come back. Lee grips his hand tight, says harsh words that are somehow a comfort, and Jet fucking _knew_ he was Fire but right now all he can think is how badly he doesn’t want _this_ fire back. 

“Breathe,” Lee says again, and keeps pulling him down the hall. Jet’s hands are shaking, or at least they shake whenever Lee lets go of them. 

And spark. 

They spark whenever Lee lets go of them. 

He feels Lee’s grip loosen slightly, and grips the other’s arm tightly in reflexive panic. 

“Uncle,” Lee says, and Jet only notices Mushi then, standing in the shadows with Lee’s scabbard and swords in his arms and a very strange look on his face. Jet tries to say something, but it comes out as steam; his eyes snap shut in horror and he trembles. This is not him. This is not him. This is someone else, some far-away _other_. “He lost his breath control.” 

“I see,” Mushi says, very gravely. Jet feels him step closer, and flinches again. Flinches _into_ Lee and Lee is a liar and a spy and Jet despises him but Lee is also the only thing—Lee is the only thing keeping it away. “Nephew . . .”

“I know!” Lee snaps, sounding frustrated. “What was I _supposed_ to do?!” 

“I am not reprimanding you, Nephew,” Mushi says gently, and Jet hates that voice. They don’t talk like that, they’re firebending _scum_ they’re evil they’re vile they’re not even _human_ they’re—they’re not even—

Lee’s breath catches a little and Jet thinks, despairingly, that this was not what he wanted from his second chance.


	3. so cradle your head in your hands and breathe, just breathe

“I think he’s in shock,” Lee says, awkward. 

“He looks to be,” Mushi agrees, and Jet tries to drown out both their voices and when Lee moves forward again he follows even though . . . even though Lee is what he is. Because Lee can kill the sparks. Because Jet _can’t_ kill the sparks. 

He wants them to die and never come back. 

Except something in him doesn’t. Something in him . . . something in him _wants_ them. 

He starts shaking again, and his legs buckle and then just . . . fold, and give in. Lee catches him, kind of, and that’s worse. Jet’s nails dig into the black cotton of the other’s clothes and he feels numb everywhere. Lee has another face on his hip, blue and leering and blue and horrible and blue, and Jet stares hypnotized into the eyes it doesn’t have. 

“Most certainly in shock,” Mushi murmurs, and Jet doesn’t really remember what happens but then Lee is pulling him up a ladder after him and there’s—they’re—

The _sun_. 

Jet gasps like he’s been struck and nearly falls again, and Lee is looking across the lake with a deep frown. 

“Is that—” he starts, and rock crashes in echoes and it’s the Dai Li, Jet thinks with a bright spark of hope for the _end_ of this, except it’s the Dai Li far from here. 

“The Avatar,” Mushi says neutrally, looking across the lake too. Jet can just barely see Aang in the air, and the figures of his friends beneath him, surrounded by Dai Li and stone walls and fighting back against them. And _his_ friends. His friends are there too. 

. . . are they his friends? 

Are they his friends at all anymore? 

“Katara,” Jet mutters, not meaning to say anything. Lee looks at him, sharp and sudden, and he feels woozy under the pressure of eye contact. And like killing him. “Katara,” he says again, clawing slightly at the other’s arm. 

Lee frowns. 

“Wait. Azula didn’t send you?” he asks doubtfully. 

“What?” Jet manages, touching his aching temple, dizzy and Katara. _Katara_. Lee gives him an accusing look. 

“You tried to get us _arrested_!” he snaps. “Do you know what they would’ve _done_ to us?!” 

_Did you somehow miss what they did to me?_ Jet doesn’t ask, too dizzy to form the words. 

“Nephew, I do not mean to encourage habits I was just trying to break you of, but if the Dai Li capture the Avatar—” Mushi starts, a note of urgency in his voice, and Lee curses and tears away and Jet doesn’t even think, it’s something in his gut that sends him racing after the other without even knowing where they’re going. 

He has to be close enough to hear him breathe, he thinks. He _knows_. 

Mushi does not follow them. Mushi disappears back into the dark beneath the lake, and Jet does not question why or what for. What matters is _Lee_ and the sound of Lee’s breath and staying close enough to hear it and oh spirits, spirits, why is he even _trying_? The lake is right there, he could douse himself like it was nothing. It wouldn’t be hard. It would be easy. 

Lee vanishes from view, and Jet stumbles and nearly runs into the ridiculously high stone wall that Lee is already halfway up before he realizes what’s going on. That doesn’t make sense, he thinks distantly as he looks up after him, and then his fingers accidentally brush hot rock where Lee’s heated fingers jammed into the stone and broke out a hold. He misses his swords. He wonders what happened to them. They’re probably still under the lake; no one would have wanted to take them after Aang told them. 

He wants to vomit again. 

But Katara is on the other side of this wall and Lee can’t be trusted and his hands are shaking again and he—he needs a rhythm, he’s losing his rhythm he needs to just—

A Dai Li comes tumbling end over end down the wall, rock gloves scrabbling for purchase, and hits the ground after a screeching downward slide that throws up a glorious shower of sparks. The next Dai Li comes down a lot harder, and doesn’t have a grip on the wall at all. 

Jet looks down at them, both semi-conscious and at least one seriously injured, and is a little angry that they’re not dead. Or that he’s not. They should be _killing_ him. Shouldn’t they? They should. 

Lee should have killed _them_. How did Lee not kill them? 

Jet looks down at the two Dai Li, dazed and disabled and for all he remembers the same two who arrested him or the same two who bent him into that chair or the same two who did any number of horrible things to his mind, and his fingers spark. 

But Lee didn’t kill them. 

How is he supposed to, if Lee didn’t? 

Then Mushi shows up with Aang’s sky bison roaring through the air and trailing broken and melted chains, and he forgets to do anything. 

.

.

.

Whatever kind of trick or trap Jet was intended to be, Iroh doesn’t know, and whatever the Dai Li did to him he doesn’t know either. The boy is dangerous, though: a firebender who can handle a weapon is a rare thing, and a firebender who can pass for Earth Kingdom . . . 

That’s a concern. They don’t _do_ that in the Fire Nation. Fire is not an element of stealth or subtlety _(this is what makes Zuko and Azula strange, but they get that from their mother)_ , and it has been a long time since the Fire Nation employed spies. They find _informants_ , people who want the money or are easily cowed. It’s the “honorable” way. 

But then again, the boy did walk into the last and greatest stronghold of the Earth Kingdom wearing red. 

Iroh doesn’t know the trick. He knows there must be one somewhere—the boy went right _to_ Zuko on the ferry, and knew just what to say to sell his plan to both of them. They let him get close. 

But then there was the teashop. What happened in the teashop makes no sense. The Dai Li clearly interrupted whatever the boy’s ultimate goals were, but why would he waste all the effort it took to get Zuko anywhere close to on his side just crashing in like that? It seems unlikely that Azula would pick a spy who would lose patience with the plan that quickly, especially in a way that would get himself caught, but . . . 

Then again, it also seems unlikely they would run across him under the lake, and yet equally unlikely that Jet could fake that level of panic and distress. Either way Iroh still doesn’t know the trick, and knows his nephew doesn’t know it either. 

Considering the condition Jet was in, clinging to Zuko’s side like a lost child, he’s not sure if the boy knows it himself. 

But Zuko who sabotages any chance at compassion or companionship and can’t handle the basic social interaction it requires to wait on a customer was letting a boy who tried to get them arrested cling to him like that, was pulling him along with him, keeping him moving and keeping the fire he couldn’t keep in under control. Because Jet is Fire, not Earth after all, and that means he is one of Zuko’s people. 

Or because Jet’s Fire, not Earth after all, and that makes him more important in Zuko’s eyes. 

Iroh is concerned, for various reasons, but now is not the time to stop and figure it all out. 

.

.

.

Zuko cannot for the life of him figure out how he ended up on the Avatar’s bison, although Uncle seems perfectly content to be here, never mind that they’re here with three of _Azula’s spies_ and for some reason the Avatar’s friends don’t seem to care about that. Although they were plenty upset to see _him_ , never mind that he’d attacked the Dai Li for them and that Uncle had outright _saved_ them breaking out their damn bison. The Avatar keeps giving Jet nervous looks, but that’s the worst it gets.

Zuko doesn’t get it. 

Also, it’s cold up here. The Avatar’s apparently invulnerable to it and of course the Water Tribe don’t care, but it’s driving Zuko nuts. 

He inhales without really thinking about it, calling heat into his limbs, and a second later hears Jet choke and start scrabbling at his mouth. 

Zuko blinks, and turns to look at the other. Jet’s eyes are wide, and his fingers are clamped over his mouth and nose, holding them shut like he’s terrified of his own breath. 

“Jet?” Katara asks anxiously as she leans in. “Are you okay?” Jet makes a strangled noise, curling up small against the side of the saddle. 

“His mouth is burned,” Zuko says, realizing belatedly that Jet was still breathing in unison with him and the rush of heat would’ve hurt him. Dammit. Every head in the place snaps up, and Katara glares at him. 

“What did you do to him?!” she demands angrily. And Azula’s other two spies—

“You really _are_ a firebender?!” Smellerbee snarls, eyes flaring with rage, and Zuko stares at her in bemusement. What is she—

Then she jumps at him with a knife and he’s got bigger concerns than figuring out why she’s _surprised_ by that. He disarms and puts her on her back out of reflex, but then Longshot’s got an arrow nocked and in his face and Smellerbee’s got a second knife against the artery on the inside of his thigh and, well, Zuko’s done stupider things than get in a fight several hundred feet above the ground while outnumbered, but not many. 

A blast of air shoves them to opposite sides of the saddle before anybody kills anybody, and Zuko hits the side with a painful crack. 

“Knock it off, guys!” the Avatar snaps, wielding his folded glider with uncharacteristic anger in his face. “It wasn’t Zuko, okay?!” Katara’s glare vanishes instantly into an alarmed expression, and her hands suddenly press in tight against her stomach. 

“Aang, you—” she starts, and the Avatar blanches. Zuko suddenly remembers that the Avatar _is_ a firebender, and feels strange about the thought. He’s never seen him bend fire before, or even try to. 

“It wasn’t me either!” the Avatar protests. Zuko scowls at them because it’s better than admitting confusion, and Uncle frowns very slightly. 

“I see,” Uncle murmurs, looking at Jet, who hasn’t moved at all. Aside from the shaking, anyway. Zuko’s scowl deepens. 

“Well it wasn’t Long _Feng_ , so what the heck happened?” Sokka demands indignantly. “People don’t just magically get set on fire!” 

“What do you _think_ happened, idiot?” Zuko snaps at him. 

“Man, and here I thought you were the nice one, Uncle,” Toph says, eyes narrowing. “Guess I shoulda known better.” 

“Idiots!” Zuko snarls. As if Uncle would ever burn someone in this condition; as if Uncle would _ever_ hurt one of their people without just cause. 

“Stop _fighting_!” the Avatar yells, slamming his staff down against the saddle and sending another blast of air that nearly knocks more than one of them off the saddle. Smellerbee barely catches herself on the guardrail, and Sokka grabs Toph just in time to keep her in her seat. Zuko has never seen the Avatar be so careless with his bending, or look so upset so easily. “It’s not—it doesn’t matter, okay, forget about it! At least until we get on the ground,” he finishes in a mutter, dropping down into a crouch with his staff across his knees. 

“Aang . . .” Katara says, expression softening in worry as she kneels beside him, touching his shoulder. 

“I’m fine,” Aang says, covering his face with a hand. “Just—we need to get back to the Upper Ring, okay? And Jet probably needs . . . he needs sleep or something.” 

“He needs _burn_ salve,” Smellerbee spits, glaring at Zuko, who scowls back. 

“Oh, Jet, I’m sorry, let me—” Katara starts, drawing water out of her pouch and leaning towards him, and Zuko jerks between them at the same time the Avatar grabs her arm and yanks her back. 

“Are you _crazy_?” Zuko demands incredulously. Maybe it’s different with waterbenders, but touching a _firebender_ in that state is asking to get burned. 

“Get away from him!” Smellerbee barks, and the Avatar’s staff comes down just in time to block her from shoving Zuko. “Aang! What the hell, he’s a firebender!” 

“I don’t care!” the Avatar shouts. “You’re all so—I’ve known a lot of firebenders, okay?! I was born _before the war_. One of my best _friends_ was a firebender!” 

“Oh spirits, not this story again,” Zuko groans, dropping his head into his hands. 

“It’s not a _story_!” the Avatar snarls. “His name was Kuzon! He liked rice candy and shadow-puppet plays and dancing and he wasn’t a _story_!” 

Everyone goes silent, and the Avatar’s friends all look away uncomfortably. Uncle bows his head and Smellerbee hisses through her teeth and Longshot’s face is somehow even blanker than usual, and Jet . . . well, Jet really doesn’t react at all, but Jet hasn’t reacted to much of anything since Uncle dragged him onto the sky bison’s back mid-escape, at least not as far as Zuko’s noticed. 

Zuko just feels like an idiot, and angry for it. He doesn’t care what the world was like when the Avatar was born, doesn’t care about people who are more than likely already long dead. They’re _gone_ and they won’t come back and all you can do is—all you can do is survive yourself. That’s it. 

It’s stupid to expect otherwise. 

“Aang,” Katara says quietly. The Avatar presses his lips together in a thin line, and turns his back on them. 

“Forget it,” he mutters. “Just—we have to get back. Jet’s hurt.” 

“It’s okay, I can heal him,” Katara reassures him. Zuko makes a disgusted noise, and Katara misses the Avatar shaking his head when she jerks her head around to glare at him. _“What?”_ she snaps. 

“They’re minor burns,” Zuko retorts. “Fixing them is _not_ worth _major_ ones.”

“Is that a _threat_?” Katara spits, eyes narrowing. 

“What—that’s a fact, you idiot, why would you even _try_ that?!” he demands, and then Uncle’s hand is on his arm and he frowns in confusion, looking back to him. “Uncle?” 

“A moment, Nephew,” Uncle murmurs, and looks at the Avatar with a serious expression. “May I ask how your group and Jet’s know each other?”

“They’re freedom fighters,” the Avatar mutters, still not turning back to the group. “We met them when they were trying to flood the Fire Nation out of the valley they lived above. Along with all the ‘collaborators’ in the Earth Kingdom village there.” 

“Hey hey hey, why are we answering questions like these?” Sokka demands, waving both hands urgently. “Fire Nation, Aang! Even if the old guy backed us up at the North Pole that doesn’t mean we can trust him! That was freaky magic stuff, anybody who didn’t want the whole world to go down would’ve done that!” 

“Zuko didn’t,” Katara says, darkly. 

“Yeah, well, bad as Jet is, do we _really_ want to get him in deeper shit than he naturally gets in on his own?” Sokka demands, folding his arms across his chest and then inclining his head towards Longshot and Smellerbee. “No offense, but yeah. You guys are all kinda nuts, but straw-boy here takes the cake and the custard and the fancy little garnish on the side.” 

“The breathing thing is pretty creepy, I’ll give you that,” Toph agrees. 

“The what?” Sokka blinks at her. Toph points at Jet, then swivels her arm towards Zuko—surprisingly accurately, all things considered. 

“He keeps breathing right after Sparky does,” she says. “Like, Sparky starts to inhale and he matches it, and Sparky starts to exhale and he matches _that_. It is super, super freaky.” 

“Still?” Zuko frowns, looking over to Jet. He’d hoped the other would have at least calmed down enough to find his own breath control again. 

“What do you mean _still_?” Katara asks, scowling. 

“He was panicking,” Zuko retorts, scowling back at her. “He lost his breath control. What else was I supposed to do?” 

“His what?” Toph’s nose wrinkles in bemusement, and Zuko blows hair out of his eyes with a frustrated sigh. How do you even explain that to an earthbender, anyway? His head hurts too much for this. Most of him’s aching, in fact, and he still can’t believe he helped the Avatar in a fight _again_ , even if it was only to keep him from falling into someone else’s hands. 

“It’s . . . ugh, forget it, you wouldn’t even get it,” he grunts, shaking his head. “We just need it, okay?” 

“The heck you mean ‘we’?” Sokka asks, and Zuko gives him a strange look. Wait. 

“You don’t _know_?” he asks. What he knows of Jet doesn’t make sense, but this makes even less sense—Azula wouldn’t have been sloppy enough to send the same person after two separate targets, and even if she was, why would it be someone who’d tried to take out a Fire Nation outpost? Jet was against the Nation, he _couldn’t_ be Azula’s—which meant he was the Avatar’s, right? And if he was the Avatar’s—“Isn’t he your firebending master?” 

Aang _flinches_. 

Complete silence falls across the group again, except this time it’s worse. Zuko stares at them, and they stare back at him, and he feels as if he’s missed something very important here.


	4. my friends and I, we got a lot of problems

Katara laughs, Sokka _really_ laughs, Zuko looks _pissed_ , and Aang . . . Aang has no idea what to say. 

“He’s not my firebending master,” he manages awkwardly, knowing how badly this is going to go, trying not to look at any of the others yet. So badly. This is going to go so _badly_. “He’s, uh—he’s not.” 

“But he’s with you.” Zuko frowns, deeply, which Aang sees mostly because he’s still trying not to look at anyone _else_. It’s weird seeing Zuko like this, he thinks. Like it was weird in the forest, after the other . . . “broke him out” is the wrong thing. Stole him, maybe. 

“Uh. Yeah,” Aang says. Zuko’s frown deepens, and turns irritated. He’s not a patient person, but Aang doesn’t know how to explain this. _Jet_ pretty obviously doesn’t know how to explain this, from how freaked out he is. 

Aang doesn’t understand why he lied about this. Except the look Jet had on his face after he bent . . . that he understands even less. 

Jet hates the Fire Nation. Jet _despises_ the Fire Nation. 

Even Jeong Jeong didn’t hate his nation, did he? Not enough to try to _hurt_ it. 

“Are you _stupid_?” Smellerbee demands. “Of course he’s not! Jet’s not even an _earth_ bender!” 

“Who the hell said he was?!” Zuko snaps, clearly irritated again. Aang flashes back to all those flares of temper that Zuko would burn and destroy with, and tenses reflexively. Except Zuko doesn’t burn, doesn’t even flicker, and doesn’t seem inclined to. That’s . . . new, Aang thinks. 

Then he wonders where Zuko’s _been_ all this time, anyway, because it’s not the first time they’ve run across him wearing Earth Kingdom colors and with no seriously committed interest in capturing him. 

“What are you even _doing_ here?!” Smellerbee snarls. “Fire scum, lying _spy_!” 

“I am not a _spy_!” Zuko thunders, eyes flashing. 

“Don’t fight,” Aang manages, gritting his teeth, tightening his grip on his staff. It’s the best he has right now—all he can think about is Kuzon, is the past, is people not being enemies just because they came from someplace different and how much _easier_ it was and do they have to fight, why does everyone always have to? “I’m so sick of _fighting_.” 

“Aang . . .” Katara says gently, reaching out, and Aang jerks his head up and locks eyes with Longshot and Smellerbee. Them, because if they don’t know then they’re the ones who . . . it has to be them, is all. 

“Jet’s a firebender,” he tells them. Longshot blinks; Smellerbee gives him a look like she thinks he just hit his head. 

“What are you _talking_ about?” Katara asks in bemusement. 

“Jet’s a firebender,” Aang repeats, and doesn’t look _at_ Jet. He’s not sure if Jet’s really in there right now anyway. “Long Feng tried to get him to kill me with a—a code phrase or something, and I helped him break the trance. Then he bent fire at Long Feng. That’s what happened to the rocks. That’s why he ran away.” 

“You’re nuts,” Smellerbee says, and gives him a weird, terrifying grin that makes his skin crawl. “It’s _Jet_.” 

“I know,” Aang says, and although he _shouldn’t_ say it—“I’m sorry.” 

.

.

.

“It’s not true,” Smellerbee says, her voice a low, cracked snarl. They got back to Ba Sing Se under protest from Zuko—who understandably does not want outed as a royal firebender in a city run by brainwashing secret police where there “is no war”, and Aang can see his point on that—and holed up in the house because . . . because it was a terrible idea to stop, pretty much, but Jet is functionally catatonic in the other room and Aang doesn’t want to leave him when he’s like this. If it were just an injury that’d be one thing, Longshot and Smellerbee could stay back to watch him, but like _this_ . . . 

Aang has seen a lot of bad things since he woke up, but the look on Jet’s face after he firebent was at least the top three—right up there with Katara’s burned and trembling hands and Sokka’s eyes after Yue. 

“It’s true,” he tells Smellerbee, as gently as he can. “That’s why the rocks were scorched. He threw one of his swords at Long Feng and Long Feng threw a stone pillar back, and he broke it with fire.” 

“That’s really hard,” Zuko mentions absently, and gets a lot of dirty looks. He gives back just as good as he gets, and Aang grimaces and rubs at his temple. 

“Stop _arguing_ ,” he bites off. They haven’t actually started, but he can feel it in the air. Toph doesn’t have any problem with Iroh and doesn’t seem to mind Zuko, but everybody else is upset. Aang gets it, but since Zuko apparently kept Jet from burning himself down . . . well, he doesn’t really like _Jet_ either, honestly, but he didn’t want him hurt. 

“Well it _is_ hard,” Zuko mutters. He doesn’t look good, which Aang notices a little belatedly. He didn’t see any of the Dai Li land a decent hit on him, but he doesn’t know what happened underneath the lake. 

He’d ask, but it’s Zuko. He’d set them on fire sooner than accept their help. 

“I just don’t get it,” he says. “He couldn’t firebend before. Katara never could’ve frozen him to that tree if he could.” 

“Because he’s not a _firebender_!” Smellerbee yells. “Jet _hates_ firebenders! We all do! Do you know what they _did_ to us?!” 

“. . . did they maybe do that to Jet’s mom?” Sokka asks, kind of carefully. For Sokka, anyway. Smellerbee gives him a furious look, but Longshot’s eyes flicker to thoughtful. 

“He’s _not Fire Nation_!” she snarls. 

“I’ve never seen a firebender that dark,” Sokka says, and Aang flashes back and then nods, slowly. It’s weird, because he’s seen pretty pale waterbenders and earthbenders of basically every shade you can get, but the firebenders he’s known have almost all looked very purely, classically Fire. 

“Jeong Jeong was dark,” he mentions, although he suspects a fair amount of that was the outdoor living. 

“General Jeong Jeong’s mother was a war bride,” Iroh supplies, sipping the small cup of tea he somehow magically produced as soon as they got settled in. Everyone’s quiet for a moment, then all grimace at the same time. 

“Oh _man_ ,” Toph groans. Aang understands a little more how Jeong Jeong found cause to desert where so few other Fire Nation soldiers did. 

“You think Jet’s half Earth?” he asks. Iroh makes a noise that could mean anything, but the noise Smellerbee makes as she jumps to her feet is all fury. 

“He’s _all_ Earth,” she bites off, sharp and dangerous. “Don’t you dare say he’s not! He saved us! He’s not one of those monsters, he’s fought the Fire Nation his whole _life_!” 

“We’re not monsters!” Zuko snaps, and Smellerbee turns on him with bright, enraged eyes. 

“You killed my family!” she shrieks. “I can still _smell_ it!” Zuko recoils, revulsion snapping across his face, and Aang wishes the other had just been his friend after that thing with Zhao and the archers. 

“He’s Fire enough to bend,” he says. 

“Then that’s why he flooded that village!” Katara blurts. “We should’ve known, only one of _them_ would—” 

“He’s not one of _them_!” Smellerbee roars again—Aang’s lost count of how many times she’s said it—and he grips his staff hard. 

“That’s not why,” he says. “Jet was a bad person because he was a bad person. It doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of it.” 

Except maybe it does, a little, because he can’t forget the way Jet looked after he firebent, like he hadn’t even _known_ , like he was coming home, like everything was perfect and this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. And benders . . . benders got sick, when they couldn’t. And Jet’s so _old_ , at least Sokka and Zuko’s age if not maybe even older, and how could anyone get that old _without bending_?

But if he tries to explain that the others might misunderstand, and he thinks Jet’s bad enough off as it is. 

.

.

.

Jet wakes up on soft green cotton in a soft green room and starts crying before anything else. A moment later he realizes what woke him up: someone’s shouting. He’s used to being woken up by shouting, although it’s usually accompanied by the sound of actual combat, and he reaches for his swords automatically. 

They’re not there. 

He jerks upright in bed and feels _terror_ , and his fingers spark and the bandages on his hands catch fire and he _screams_ —

The door jerks open, and Lee darts in and grabs his burning hands. The fire vanishes into nothing, and Jet moans in horror and tries to jerk back. Lee’s hands squeeze his and it _hurts_. 

“Waterbender!” Lee barks over his shoulder, and Katara’s there a second later, staring down at them with the strangest expression on her face and the sight of her almost makes Jet vomit. Oh spirits. No, no no no, he doesn’t want her to _see_ this he—he doesn’t—

She _did_ this, he thinks, and his teeth spark. Then he doesn’t think, and his arm breaks free of Lee’s grip and slices out into a move he’s been on the wrong end of too many times to count, and a sharp blade of flame goes straight for her neck. 

Katara throws water up and Lee grabs his wrist and slams him down into the mattress, and Jet feels sick and nauseous and can’t. fucking. _think_. He needs to think he needs to think find the angle what angle there is _no fucking angle_ here—

“You weren’t lying,” Katara says, arms lowering, her half-sizzled-away water lowering with them. She’s staring. Jet grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, and Lee sighs in aggravation. 

“Why would you think I was lying, the _Avatar_ told you!” he snaps. 

“I thought it was a trick,” Katara says, voice blank. Jet’s jaw aches, and he’s too aware of Lee’s body and its too-high temperature. 

“How was I supposed to know you didn’t know?!” Lee demands. “If he’s not Azula’s—”

“He’d _never_!” Katara snarls, and Jet’s eyes open against his will and see the anger on her face. She looks insulted, outraged—outraged for _him_. He laughs. It’s a short, ugly thing, but it’s a laugh all the same, and both of them stare at him. 

And Longshot and Smellerbee in the doorway, they stare at him too. 

He wants to die.


	5. you don’t even know my name

It’s this morning all over again and Jet is sitting on a stool, wrapped in bandages and bare of armor and surrounded by suspicious and accusing faces—except not exactly, because Aang just looks upset and Lee’s watching him for signs of sparks and Mushi seems unconcerned with everything and is just sipping his tea at the table. His lack of reaction almost makes Jet feel better, except Mushi is _Fire_. 

And. And. 

_(Mom, her long dark hair and slow smirk of a smile and the dark, dark red she wore)_

Jet shudders, curling in on himself again, and Aang kneels in front of him with the softest, most disgustingly compassionate look that Jet has ever seen on his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he rasps. 

They’re supposed to kill him. Smellerbee looks like she wants to, underneath the grief and confusion and the tearstained warpaint, and Longshot stands like he’s thinking about it, although the brim of his hat is pulled too low for Jet to see his face. And that’s right, that’s the thing to _do_ , that’s—

“Katara said that was a real firebending move you used on her,” Aang says, and something cracks inside. 

“It was Splitting Hands,” a voice that doesn’t feel like Jet’s voice says, and something moves his hands into position. Smellerbee makes a strangled noise, but it’s not Jet doing it so he can’t stop himself. “It was the first strike I learned.” 

“Where’d you learn it?” Aang asks. 

“Father taught me,” not-Jet says. 

“He was a bender?” Aang’s head tips, just a little. Not-Jet tries to answer, but Jet’s throat is seizing up. He tries to shake his head; tries to nod; tries just to _think_. None of it works. Aang changes tactics: “Did your mother teach you anything?” 

“Freedom isn’t free,” Jet says sharply, and for a second actually feels like he’s _him_. Aang’s eyes widen and he senses a few of the others stiffening, but Longshot and Smellerbee don’t. 

“You said you weren’t going to lie to us again,” Katara says, her voice harsh in the background. Waterbenders are difficult to hold prisoner, the part of Jet that’s not Jet supplies, the part that sounds like a familiar man’s voice supplies. It’s rarely worth the effort. They’re easier to cut off from their element than earthbenders, but harder to _keep_ cut off. 

“I wasn’t,” he says bleakly, deflating. 

“Technically he’d _already_ lied to us,” Sokka points out, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 

“That’s not an _excuse_!” Katara barks. Jet’s head starts swimming again: _you can never keep your canteen full when they’re in the area, if you have more than one prisoner you can never bring both a drink at the same time,_ that man’s _voice_ and his stories, when he’d come, he’d hardly ever come but when he had he’d brought stories. Stories and little bits of flash and trophy, little trinkets; Mom had a whalebone hairpin and jade earrings and a cloak lined in white fur, Jet had—Jet had—

That wasn’t Jet, who had those things. 

“He wasn’t lying,” Aang says. 

“Wh—of course he was!” Katara protests, and Sokka gives an incredulous little laugh. Toph’s feet flex against the floor. 

“Aang’s right, he wasn’t,” she agrees. “He was _wrong_ , but he wasn’t lying. Like when he thought he’d been working since he came to Ba Sing Se.” 

“How can you be _wrong_ about what _nation_ you are?!” Sokka squawks disbelievingly. 

“Forget that, how can you be wrong about being a _bender_?!” Katara snaps, the words like a whipcrack. “You can’t—you _know_ when you’re a bender! You _feel_ it!”

“Beats me, I don’t get it either,” Toph says, shrugging with folded arms. “I could never not know.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Aang says with a vague, distant look on his face. Jet thinks about how easy thinking always was for him and how _naturally_ the connections came, how weird he used to think it was when other people didn’t see them or came up with the wrong ones. How he’d assumed everyone thought the same way, because the way he thought was the only one he knew. 

He thinks about how he never understood how easily everyone else got cold. 

“It matters,” Smellerbee says, very lowly. Jet’s head throbs. 

“It matters,” he agrees hoarsely. Smellerbee tenses again, her wrist twisting just slightly; it’s a move Jet knows, the one that drops the sleek little blade folded into the cuff of her glove into her palm. He stares hungrily at that hand, praying she’ll use it. She’s so fast, she could be on him before they even realized her hands weren’t empty. It doesn’t take much, if you know where to hit. 

He taught her where to hit. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Aang says shortly. “You didn’t not know, you _forgot_. You wouldn’t know any bending moves if you’d never known were a bender.” 

“Forgetting makes even _less_ sense!” Katara protests, but Aang is looking at her hands. 

“He forgot Lake Laogai,” he says. For a second the room stares at him, and then they all look at Katara’s hands. She pales in horror, snatching them in against her stomach. 

“No,” she says. 

“It happened when you touched me with the water,” not-Jet tells her distantly, his eyes on those hands too. Looking at her face would be too much, so he thinks about his mother’s face instead. Not the red she wore, not the way she wore her hair: just her face, her smirk and her smile and the way her eyes were never, ever soft and the sharp slice of her nails across the mouth of someone who had insulted her and how those same nails never so much as pricked him, even once. It . . . 

He thinks it helps. 

“That’s not possible,” Katara says, shaking her head. “I wasn’t _doing_ that, I was just—I was just making the fake parts go away!” 

“We were with him for years,” Smellerbee says, her eyes bright and angry. Her voice is trembling with things Jet does not want to name, and he does not miss the “were”. “He never told real stories. Everybody else told stories about their families, eventually, but he always lied. He told me the real ones hurt to think about.” 

“They did,” Jet replies dully, and Smellerbee’s eyes flash brighter and angrier, but it’s true. He’d always gotten headaches when he’d tried to remember. He’d known he’d had parents, and he’d known the village had burned, and he’d remembered fire and Fire Nation men and the stink of the burning world and the—the screams, and . . . and from that direction, from the direction of the screams a man with a slick, vicious smile and from before that a voice that had—that had told him what to do, and then . . . and then things had just gone from there. 

Then he’d just done what had been natural. 

“It happens, right?” Aang asks, looking to Katara with something very close to pleading. “At the temple sometimes the monks would get sick and they’d forget things.” 

“One of the hunters back home hit his head once and forgot a whole day,” Sokka says, very slowly. 

“A _day_ , not who he _was_!” Katara shouts. 

“I know!” Sokka shouts back at her, but then his eyes skitter over to Jet and they say strange things. “I just . . . Katara, he wanted to _kill_ them.” 

“He wanted to kill the Earth Kingdom _villagers_ , too!” she snaps. Jet feels like he should flinch, but . . . there’s just not enough left in him. “Or did you forget about that?!” 

“You didn’t see him with the old man,” Sokka says, lips pressing into a thin line, arms folding. “Katara, he _hated_ him. I’ve never . . . I don’t know if I could hate _Zhao_ that much, and Jet didn’t even _know_ that guy.” 

“They’re all the same,” Jet grinds out reflexively, and then laughs because— _because_. This is why, he thinks, this is why he could never do the right thing, this is why he _scared_ people when he didn’t—when he didn’t lie. When he didn’t find a way to wrap it all up pretty. 

Lee’s eyes narrow, and Jet wants to kill him. Wants to die and wants to kill Lee, Lee with his Fire eyes and Fire features and how did he not see, how did he not _know_ , he was—he was—how did he not _know_?! He should’ve known, someone should’ve seen it, killed him, struck him down right then torn him apart destroyed everything he was before—before—

He laughs harder, doubling over in his seat, tears pouring down his face and sparks, the sparks again but he keeps his hands buried between his chest and thighs to smother them and they scorch, they _burn_. 

It hurts. 

“Jet, stop it!” Aang cries, or Katara, or both of them, and hands are grabbing at him and he wants it over he wants to burn he wants to go like his mother did, like he’d thought they both had, like—

“Ah,” he manages, head jerking up again and face going white. 

His father. 

His father didn’t die in the village. 

His father _killed_ the village. 

“. . . it. It wasn’t even our village,” he manages, voice thick and cracking. _And you don’t even know my name._ “It was just someplace she tried to hide from him.”

“What?” Sokka asks, and Aang’s grip on him softens, Aang’s whole expression softens, and Katara’s looks like it wants to but of course she knows better, _she_ knows what he is. 

But the words come anyway. 

“Mom—he—he burned her _up_ ,” Jet chokes out, and he’s crying and can’t stop and doesn’t even want to, anything that might put the sparks out keep the fire down he can’t stop _crying_. “Sifu said I had to go to the capitol to learn the next sets and Mom—she took me and we, we ran away and he found us and he _burned her_.” 

And he’s not dead. 

His father is alive. 

.

.

.

It’s late. The sun is down. They need to go to the Earth King, Sokka keeps saying, but no one actually goes anywhere and Katara and Toph just want out of this city and Longshot doesn’t say anything and Lee just gets madder and madder every time it comes up. Mushi keeps the fighting to a minimum, but only barely. 

Aang doesn’t say anything either, but Smellerbee sees him sneaking anxious little looks at Jet, and it makes her blood burn. 

She doesn’t want this. She _trusted_ him, how dare he lie to her, to his _freedom fighters_ —as if they were nothing, pawns to be played with, another means to another end. 

She’d always known he played them. He’d had to, that many kids in close quarters and no more authority than a sharp tone of voice and the right word at the right time gave him, of _course_ he’d had to play them _sometimes_. 

But he shouldn’t have had to lie. 

He should never have done that to them. 

She feels the knife in her palm, and Longshot gives her a quieting look: a _“be patient”_ look, a _“wait it won’t be long”_ look. Smellerbee flashes to the agony in Jet’s face, as genuine-looking as any pain she’s ever seen, and despises him because she will never know if it’s a lie. It must be, she tells herself, they are not human they are the enemy they don’t _feel_ that kind of pain and he is nothing but a lie. 

Longshot doesn’t think he’s lying, but Longshot wants to kill him too. He sees it as a mercy. 

Smellerbee doesn’t, but she’ll make it quick when it’s time, for Longshot. She’ll make it quick, she’ll do it so Longshot doesn’t have to, and then they’ll go someplace far from here and never, ever, ever come back, not even if the Fire Nation takes the whole rest of the world. 

They will die choking on smoke and ashes and their own boiling throats before they ever come back to Ba Sing Se.


	6. there’s nothing you can ever say, nothing you can ever do

“If you suggest storming the Earth King’s palace one more time I will put you through the _floor_!” Lee snarls at Sokka, teeth bared with rage. “Do you know how hard it was for us to find someplace we could actually _hide_?! Hell, do you know what they’d _do_ to us?!” 

“No one said you had to _come_ , prissy boy!” Sokka snarls back, puffed up to his full height. Jet watches the argument through dull eyes from the corner he’s retreated to, because it’s something not himself to look at. 

“The Dai Li know our faces because of _you_!” Lee shoots back angrily. Jet expects him to flame or at least spark, but he doesn’t. 

“Nobody asked for your help at the lake, either!” Sokka snaps. “You volunteered! And anyway it’s your own fault, nobody’s stupid enough to think you really _were_ helping, you just don’t want anyone else to lock Aang up before you get your sooty hands on him!” 

“I can’t go _home_ without him!” Lee snarls. 

“Man, no one’s dad is _that_ pissed about a failed hunt,” Sokka says in exasperation, rolling his eyes. Lee’s expression flares angrily, and Jet thinks . . . well . . . 

He can imagine _that man_ being that pissed. 

“What kind of dad did you _have_?” he asks, that weird cracked laugh breaking out of his throat again. He gets a startled look from most of the room—maybe they forgot he was here, or just didn’t think he’d say anything. 

“What? A normal one, what do you mean?” Sokka asks, scowling. “What kind of dad did _you_ —uh.”

“A mercenary,” Jet says, the answer absent and automatic. He can feel Smellerbee and Longshot staring at him. This is probably even worse than being Fire, he thinks dully, covering his face with his hands: being Fire and having a _father_. Except it’s a father who burned his mother up, a father who was going to send him off for army training at what, six? Seven? And he doesn’t know what to _think_ of that, his head is already too torn up and now it’s torn between memories of a man who brought him presents and always had something new to teach him and sang to Mom every time he came home and made her smile. 

He hates Sokka a little right now, knowing the other has never ever felt that way. 

“Twelve is a hard age to lose a parent,” Mushi says, quiet and sympathetic as he sips his tea. 

“I was seven,” Jet corrects, the answer automatic again. He thinks any answer would be, except for admitting that his father is alive. Mushi chokes mid-swallow. 

“Ah—I’m sorry, I thought you said you were being sent to the capitol for training . . .?” he starts carefully, and Jet frowns. 

“You can’t teach the advanced forms in the colonies,” he says. 

“Of course,” Mushi agrees, staring at him. Everyone’s staring at him today, Jet thinks, and laughs. It comes out cracked again, but it’ll probably do that for the rest of his life. Short as he expects that to be. 

“You’re _kidding_ me,” Lee says incredulously. “I just learned the advanced forms this _year_.” Jet blinks, and frowns at the other instead. 

“Seriously?” he asks. “Damn, you kind of suck rocks, don’t you.” 

And if he thought they were all staring _before_ . . . yeah. Well. 

“What. I don’t. _What_ ,” Sokka says incredulously, then just turns his back and throws his hands up in the air. “No, forget it, I don’t even want to _know_.” 

“Uncle?” Toph asks suspiciously. 

“Princess Azula started her army training at seven,” Mushi tells them. 

“. . . what,” Katara says. Jet chokes on another cracking laugh, _positive_ he heard that wrong. He _knows_ he heard that wrong.

“She would’ve started at six, but Princess Ursa wouldn’t agree to it,” Mushi says carefully, oddly deliberately avoiding looking at Lee for a moment. “But twelve is the normal age to start the forms that aren’t taught in the colonies.” 

“Wait, you’re saying he’s not just a firebender, he’s some kind of _prodigy_?” Katara asks with an incredulous laugh, jerking a hand back towards Jet. “Are you _kidding_ me?!”

“It would explain how he had the skill to suppress it at such a young age, even if it was only subconsciously,” Mushi replies slowly. “Typically it is very hard for a young firebender to control their inner fire well enough that no one else would notice something.” 

“This is crap,” Smellerbee says, jerking upright stiffly. “I’m not listening to this.” Jet laughs again, but actually sobs, and she stiffens even further. “Stop _doing_ that!” she shrieks at him. 

“Sorry,” he manages, and covers his face with his hands again. They’re shaking; traitors. 

He’s not supposed to cry. He _never_ cried in the forest, not where they could ever possibly see him. Doing it now is just another betrayal. 

“Riiight,” Sokka says dubiously. “No offense, but why the heck should we take the Dragon of the _West’s_ word on this? Seriously, one good reason. That’s all.”

“Uh?” Smellerbee says blankly, dawning horror in her face, and Jet blinks, slowly. Longshot’s fingers twitch. 

“Uncle wouldn’t lie,” Lee snaps irritably, eyes narrowed. 

“And now you want me to take Prince freakin’ _Zuko’s_ word and that is even _less_ likely,” Sokka says dubiously, folding his arms and just eyeing him in return. “No seriously, go on, if you believe that one I’ve got a bridge for sale in the Spirit World.” 

“Stupid _peasant_!” Lee snarls. Jet rolls the word “prince” over in his head, and is mildly surprised not to be killing him already. Smellerbee and Longshot both look too shocked to do anything. 

“Spoiled _psycho_!” Sokka shouts back, and Lee’s expression goes nasty and . . . and not nasty enough, somehow, Jet thinks as he watches the two of them grapple like angry batwolf kits. He waits with dull, morbid fascination for the scent of burning flesh, but it doesn’t come and then Mushi and Katara drag them apart, and Sokka and Lee both look more angry than injured. 

And Lee still isn’t sparking. 

“How dare you,” Lee hisses, eyes narrowed in fury, and Sokka glares back at him just as furiously. This is the Fire Nation. This is the Fire Nation’s _prince_. 

Jet keeps waiting for sparks that don’t come. 

.

.

.

And then Aang and his friends go and see the Earth King, and Longshot and Smellerbee go with them. Jet stays in the house with Lee and Mushi, and wonders who the hell thought _that_ was a good idea. Lee refused to go anywhere near the palace on his fucking _life_ and Mushi found a more polite way to do the same, and Longshot talked Smellerbee into going along with the others, although Jet wishes he wouldn’t have. 

He wanted them to do it. They _deserved_ to do it. But he can take care of it himself if he has to. 

Knowing that he can do that soon makes him feel better. 

“Jet,” Mushi says, and Jet glances over to him only because there’s no point in not. Lee is pacing the floor like he has a grudge against it, and watching it’s driving him a little nuts. 

They are Fire Nation and he is alone in a room with them, but not killing them. 

“Would you like something to drink?” Mushi asks, kindly, which of course means “tea”. Jet just looks at him for a moment, then shakes his head in frustration. Mushi is complicated as _hell_ , he thinks: such a stupid old man except not stupid at all. _Lazy,_ his mind supplies; Mushi got lazy somewhere. He stopped trying. 

That’s a bad idea, during a war. 

_“Uncle,”_ Lee hisses in irritation, short and raspy and all bristles. Mushi just smiles genially and starts the tea anyways. It’s not a blend Jet recognizes, but it smells good and that makes him angry and—and Lee looks strange. But Lee’s looked strange since the moment Jet looked up from that stone floor and saw his face again, weirdly younger with the longer hair, with his face lit by—with his face lit by—

The fire was lighting Lee’s face, and its light looked warm and soft and not the way Jet’s used to it looking but it was just the smallest flickers, the ones fading away because Lee was _making_ them fade away, curl in on themselves into nothing. Because Lee pushed it back and put it out, and . . . 

That was the first time Jet had seen a firebender put a fire _out_ in a long, long time. 

Are they even safe here, he wonders, watching Lee walk his grudge-bearing walk. The Dai Li know him, and they saw Lee and Mushi’s faces at the lake _(it’s so lovely at this time of year)_ , and they _definitely_ know Aang’s group and where they’ve been staying. This was probably the stupidest place to come back to, actually, and he never would’ve let them do it if he’d been thinking straight. 

Then again, why would they have listened to him? They wouldn’t have. They _shouldn’t_ have. 

Mushi brings the tea over, and Jet’s memories supply contradicting pictures of the man crouching in front of him with this fragrant, delicate cup of who knows what: Jet remembers the stories about the Siege of Ba Sing Se, about the battles, the damage done in the war, and not-Jet remembers stories of heroism and compassion and how good he was at bringing people’s fathers home and—

Oh. 

He stares at the Dragon of the West and remembers more personal stories: the ones from when he was very, _very_ young, and his father was a more traditional kind of soldier. 

Mushi knew his father. 

Or at least his father knew _him_ , anyway; who knows how well the Dragon of the West remembers the men who served under him, no matter how good he was at bringing them back alive. If anything that would’ve probably made it harder to keep track. 

“Drink,” Mushi says, pushing the tea at him. “You need your strength.” 

Jet laughs in the cracked way that is becoming his laugh, and takes the cup. Why the hell not? He even takes a drink, and hates himself just that little bit more because he likes the taste of it. 

“Is it too hot?” Mushi asks, clearly just trying to trick him into talking. He was the commanding officer of the man who killed his mother. The one man who should have _never_ killed her; who should’ve kept her safe and happy all her life. 

As much as Jet has hated the Fire Nation, when the hate is this personal it is so, so different. 

He shakes his head, because there’s nothing else to do. Mushi gets to his feet and returns to his tea and Jet feels dull and cold and empty, and cradles his cup more carefully in lieu of letting that show. His eyes keep drifting to Lee between sips, which he blames on all the stomping around the other’s doing. Somehow he is not surprised by the idea that Lee is a prince, although he’s a little fuzzy on the royal family in general and Lee’s a lot younger than he thought the prince was supposed to be. He was never that interested in that stuff, though—he wanted to learn about the battles and the soldiers and the fighting—and anyway, Mushi’s an old man, it’s not like he hasn’t had plenty of time to have another kid. 

He knows one thing, though: the Dragon of the West was supposed to be the Fire Lord.


	7. it’s like I know where I need to be

“Wanna flip for him?” Sokka suggests. Katara gives him a dirty look. 

_“Sokka,”_ she seethes. “We just _barely_ managed to explain we’re having a war with the Fire Nation to the Earth King and you want to leave an _uncontrolled firebender_ around him?!”

“Yes.” 

“Idiot!” 

“You’re _all_ idiots,” Lee snaps. “What do you think you’re going to do if he loses control?”

“Freeze him to the wall,” Katara says at the same time Sokka says, “Kick him into the bay.”

“That’s your answer to _everything_ with Jet!” Sokka immediately protests, scowling at Katara, who scowls back. 

“Right, because _drowning_ him is so much better!” she sneers mockingly. Jet buries his face in his hands and would laugh, except it wouldn’t sound like laughing. He hears Lee hiss through his teeth, hears Toph sniggering; doesn’t hear a sound at all from Longshot or Smellerbee. 

“Idiots!” Lee snarls again, and Mushi clears his throat to interrupt the other. 

“What my nephew _means_ to say is that from what we have observed, Jet is both volatile and powerful enough that he should not be left without the supervision of . . . well . . .” Mushi clears his throat again, delicately. 

“A firebending master,” Aang says, like he’s pronouncing sentence. Jet’s eyes widen, and his head snaps up too fast and too hard, enough that it hurts. 

“That’s not funny,” he says. 

“I am afraid it is not a joke, young man,” Mushi murmurs quietly, and Jet stiffens at the sound of his tone. “Even the smallest spark can start a terrible fire indeed.” 

“Wh— _no_ ,” Jet says, voice going thin with panic and head shaking fast. Even the idea, even the _concept_ —he can’t survive this, he won’t live long enough for it to matter, he knows he won’t, but just hearing them _say_ it—“No, I won’t do that, it’s _evil_!”

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?” Lee demands incredulously, just staring at him in disbelief. “You can’t not _bend_.” 

“Yes I can!” Jet blurts—it won’t be long, he can make it that long, and even if he had to live his entire natural _life_ why would he ever do that, he never would, he _never_ would. That, it’s sick, it’s _filthy_ , he would never _do that_ —

Katara and Lee and Aang are all staring at him with the same bemused, completely lost looks, and Toph is staring just past him with the exact same expression. 

The way they’re looking at him, Jet feels like the world just ended. 

“It doesn’t . . . it doesn’t work like that, Jet,” Katara says slowly, giving him this heartbreaking look that makes him want to vomit. “You can’t . . . you can’t _not_.” 

“I didn’t _before_!” he snarls, teeth baring at her. How dare she look at him like that, she _did_ this to him! “I didn’t for years and it was _fine_!” 

“He’s kind of got a point there, I mean, even _Zuko_ managed to bust Aang out under Zhao’s nose without bending,” Sokka says reasonably, expression turning thoughtful as he rubs at his jaw. Lee gives him a horrified look. 

“You _know_ about that?” 

“What, Aang was not going to tell us?” Sokka asks, eyeing him doubtfully before returning his attention to the current problem. “How about the old guy just shows Jet how to not do the—the fritzy-sparky thing, so he doesn’t set any actual _fires_? Because maybe it’s just me but I think the world is okay with having one less trained firebender in it, really, there are only so many pandas I want to get eaten by.” 

“Sokka, you idiot, it’s not like that!” Katara fumes, gesturing sharply. “You _have_ to bend! It’s—you _have_ to!” 

“But you haven’t been,” Mushi says quietly, giving Jet a look that makes his skin crawl. 

“I don’t need to,” he spits out defensively, teeth gritting again and eyes narrowed. Mushi looks unmoved, except he also looks . . . he also looks something else. Things Jet doesn’t understand seeing on a firebender’s face at all. 

“I am so sorry that you feel that way,” Mushi murmurs. 

Jet wants to scream at him, but he doesn’t have a voice. 

“Riiiight,” Sokka says, slowly, and Jet sees the decision coalescing in the other’s eyes and . . . he’d head it off, normally, heading off other people’s decisions is so natural to him, but . . .

He just doesn’t give a damn at all anymore. 

“Alright, fine,” Sokka says, and starts ticking off on his fingers: “Aang’s going to see his weird guru guy, Toph’s going to see her mom, Katara, Smellerbee, and Longshot’re helping the Earth King and the generals with the battle plans—” 

“Battle plans?” Lee asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously, and the others all give Sokka murderous looks. 

“Uh. Like I was saying, Katara, Smellerbee, and Longshot’re helping the Earth King and the generals with noticing there’s a war on and keeping Long Feng in jail, and I’m going to go see Dad and the men at . . . someplace that shall not be named, for no particular reason,” Sokka says, eyeing Lee out of the corner of his eye as he speaks. “Except for, you know, _youthat_?” Toph asks, wrinkling her nose. 

“How do I put this . . . show of hands, how many people in the room not only thought the guy was a slippery bastard on first glance but have actually managed to get two steps ahead of him and keep him from getting something he wanted?” Sokka asks, raising his hand and giving the rest of the group a pointed look. Most of the rest of the group suddenly looks embarrassed, or at least like they’ve got something better to look at. “Oh, just me then? Really, nobody else? You sure, guys? Positive?” 

“Al _right_ , we get it already!” Katara snaps. 

“I rest my case,” Sokka says firmly, resting his hands on his hips. “Firebending practice can wait until we’re sure these guys aren’t going to, I don’t know, try and _recruit_ him or something because seriously, I do not want to clean up that bloodbath.” 

“He’s going to set something on fire,” Lee says flatly. Jet flinches. 

“Then I’ll kick him into the bay, was that somehow not clear?” Sokka retorts with a dubious look. “Geez, like I’ve never dealt with a cranky firebender before oh wait, I _have_ , and how did that refreshing South Pole water feel?” 

“I _hate_ you,” Lee seethes. There are a million stories behind that exchange, but Jet doesn’t even look for them. He thinks about the idea of being dragged along to see Sokka’s tribesmen, his family—his _father_ —and he hates it enough to be sick with it. He could vomit. He could _die_. 

He doesn’t want to meet the father who raised a son with no concept of a parent who would ever hurt him. 

But fighting it would mean admitting that he was here enough to care, admitting he was feeling something, so he doesn’t say a word. 

.

.

.

“They’re idiots,” Zuko hisses, crouched down in the corner with Uncle, quiet and out of the way while the Avatar’s group keeps bickering on the far end of the room. _Children,_ he fumes to himself. 

“They simply do not understand, Nephew,” Uncle replies, shaking his head. 

“They think you can show him how to control it in one lesson! They think they can control him by throwing _water_ on him!” 

“The Water Tribe boy is unfamiliar with the principles of bending,” Uncle reminds him. “In a way they _all_ are—the young waterbender is the only one who received a full traditional education, and even hers was quite rushed, as I understand it.” 

“That’s an excuse for _stupid_?!” Zuko demands, but Uncle is distracted and wearing a thoughtful expression. 

“. . . come to think of it, the Northern Water Tribe teaching a girl how to fight isn’t very traditional at all, is it . . .” 

_“Uncle!”_

“I am sure they are doing the best they can, Nephew,” Uncle sighs, shaking his head again. Zuko is not satisfied; this is dangerous, and more dangerous because no one will forgive a firebender for a mistake like they might someone else. 

“He’s going to _hurt_ someone like this!” he hisses as quietly as he can. It’s all he can do to keep his voice down, but the situation is bad enough as it is, and the _“get hurt”_ goes unspoken. 

“You are very concerned, all things considered,” Uncle says. He looks at Jet for a long moment, and Zuko bristles. 

“He’s _Fire Nation_!” he snaps. 

“That is an interesting way to look at it,” Iroh says, not looking away from Jet. 

“What are you talking about, it’s the _only_ way to look at it,” Zuko says, scowling. Now is not the time for another proverb. But Uncle just makes a quiet, hard-to-define sound and looks at Jet a moment longer, then back to Zuko. 

“I do not believe Sokka is wrong,” he says, and Zuko balks in disbelief, opening his mouth to yell at him. Uncle holds up a hand to cut him off, and his expression is serious enough that Zuko hesitates long enough to let him speak. “It took very little effort on Jet’s part to recruit you for his purposes on the ferry, Nephew—he intervened in the conversation at the precisely right moment to achieve his desires, and told us both exactly what he needed to in order to get your agreement. It seems to be something of a reoccurring habit, going by the Avatar’s group’s recounting of their initial meeting with him, and Long Feng clearly believed he was capable of making them believe him as well.” 

“So?” Zuko demands, bristling again—he does not like the reminder of working with Jet, mostly because of the reminder of the fallout and somewhat because of the reminder of how little he had really cared, at the time. It should have rankled his honor, but he had not felt the barest twinge of shame or uncertainty. He had felt _vindicated_. 

He had been right to feel vindicated, but . . . there is something in him he lost, and Jet reminds him of that. 

“Jet is a clever young man used to getting what he wants, and what he _wants_ right now is impossible,” Uncle replies lowly. “It may be best for him to be with someone that he has felt that sort of failure in the presence of before. Perhaps it will help him accept things.” 

“What is there to _accept_?” Zuko starts to snap, but the words lose force and it’s not hard to remember the bile with which Jet had spat the word “firebender” at him. The memory makes him uneasy, because there are very few directions for that much loathing to go in now. “It’s still not safe,” he mutters, looking away. Jet will catch fire and hurt someone, the Water Tribe will kill him for it, and it won’t be his _fault_. He won’t have done anything wrong, just made a stupid mistake that he couldn’t stop himself from making. 

“I know, Nephew,” Uncle says. “Which is why you should go with them.” 

_“. . . what.”_

“You are still a young man, and you have never been involved in direct military action,” Uncle reminds him. “I have lived a long, long life in this war and my exploits are well-known. I cannot walk into a Water Tribe camp with my student and expect either of us to be accepted.” 

“You can’t stay in Ba Sing Se!” Zuko protests in alarm, spine stiffening. “The Dai Li _saw_ you!” 

“I will not stay where I am known,” Uncle says, shaking his head. “But I _will_ wait here for you, Nephew. This is the place that the Avatar’s group will all be returning to.” 

“They don’t trust me, they won’t even _take_ me—” 

“If they do not take you, Jet will most likely misuse his firebending and be killed for it,” Uncle says, and Zuko loses all the protests he had. Jet is Fire Nation. Fire Nation that hates him, but Fire Nation that hates him for what he’s _done_ , not for . . . not for what he didn’t. Not for a lie on a piece of paper or a three-years-gone cowardice. 

One of their _people_. 

“We will convince them,” Uncle says, and all Zuko can do is nod. 

He is the worst firebending master anyone could have, he thinks, especially when there’s Uncle right here to learn from, but there is nothing else he can do.


	8. oh the places you’ll go

Jet’s head is spinning. Someone made decisions and it wasn’t him, it was all just a rush of other people arguing and a lifetime of memories trying to come up at all the wrong moments— _Dragon of the West, hero of the people, heir to the throne_ and _the lake is so pretty at this time of year_ and his father’s voice and strong hands and his mother’s—his mother’s—

Jet’s head is spinning. 

They’re splitting up today. Katara’s going to the palace with Longshot and Smellerbee, Toph’s going back down into the Upper Ring, and Aang and Sokka are leaving on Appa and he’s going with them, they say, but he can’t imagine going anywhere. Going someplace would mean lasting long enough to _get_ there. 

They’re splitting up right now, actually; Aang and Toph and Katara and Sokka are busy fussing over each other and even Lee and Mushi who he didn’t even know _were_ going anywhere are arguing very quietly in an out of the way alcove where the guards can’t get a clear look at them, which Jet guesses is the Fire Nation version of telling someone _“try not to die”_ , and Longshot and Smellerbee . . . 

Oh. 

He blinks down at them where they stand before him, and they look up at him. Longshot’s eyes are soft, but the line of his mouth is hard; Smellerbee’s eyes are hard but her lip is just barely trembling. She wants to cry again, he can tell. He remembers when she was little and lost and covered in ash and he remembers the sword scar across his back from the time he saved her life and the burn scars under her gloves from the time she saved _his_ and that her favorite food is appleberries. Longshot’s favorite is elk-deer, but only the way Sneers used to cook it. He doesn’t have any scars, but he’d saved _everyone’s_ life more than once with those rock steady hands and sharp eyes and you could tell him anything, he’d always listen, he’d never judge, he’d . . . 

They split apart and step around to the dark side of the pillar, and Jet follows them reflexively. The relief is . . . the relief is so . . . 

It will be over, he thinks, and everything feels so much _better_. The bright sweep of Smellerbee’s knife suddenly right _there_ is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and he’s so sorry, he didn’t want to be this, he wanted to be the leader they _deserved_ but maybe now they’ll know better, maybe they won’t trust guys like him again and be—

Smellerbee misses. 

Smellerbee never misses with a knife. But Jet didn’t dodge, either. They stare at each other, and it takes a moment before Jet realizes she’s two steps further back than she was when she lashed out. 

They look down. The tile underneath Smellerbee’s feet is skidded back the distance he survived by. _Earthbent_ back. 

They look up. Toph is standing against the pillar with a neutral expression on her face, arms folded across her chest. Jet’s . . . angry, he thinks, how _dare_ she, but he’s too far away to feel it. 

“We gotta talk,” she says. 

.

.

.

_“MORON!”_ Toph yells from further back in the courtyard, and Aang jumps a good four feet in surprise, jerking his head back to find her. He sees Jet first, getting knocked out of the shadows head over feet, and stares in bemusement as Toph stalks out after him, pelting him with little bits of tile and dirt. “Stupid frickin’ I don’t even do you _know_ how lucky you even _ARGH_!” 

Not for the first time, Aang remembers that Toph is not the most comforting person he knows, and jumps down off Appa’s back to go save Jet before she can try any harder to make him feel better. 

“Toph!” he exclaims, and she throws another tile at Jet, who doesn’t even try to dodge it. Aang blows it out of the air before he can end up with a head injury, and jumps between them. _He_ nearly gets hit with a couple tiles, and Toph doesn’t look any less mad. 

Longshot and Smellerbee step out from the shadows, wearing really weird expressions that Aang doesn’t have the time to figure out. Smellerbee’s holding a knife, which is weird too. He doesn’t— 

“You can _bend_!” Toph shouts at Jet as Aang tries to head her off. “Who doesn’t want to _bend_?!” 

Jet laughs, but it doesn’t sound like a laugh. Aang can’t imagine not wanting to bend either, but . . . well. He doesn’t really want to _fire_ bend, he can admit. 

“Toph, hey, calm down!” he says, holding his hands up. “This isn’t helping!” 

“ _They’re_ not helping!” Toph shouts, jerking a hand back to point at Longshot and Smellerbee. “He’s acting dumb enough as it is, he doesn’t need them making it worse!” 

“I know, but the yelling and rock-throwing is still not a great idea,” Aang says, wondering what they said. Probably nothing good, under the circumstances—not that he’s surprised. Jet didn’t convince them to drown a whole town because they were accepting and forgiving people. He hopes they can figure out how to be, for Jet’s sake, but . . . 

Smellerbee’s still holding that knife, he notices with a faint frown. 

And Jet’s still laughing. 

It’s . . . not a great sound. 

“You don’t _get_ it,” Toph says, and Aang feels like he’s missing something. 

“What—” he starts, but then Sokka yells over from Appa’s back and he turns towards him reflexively, and Toph breathes out in frustration. 

“Get on the freaking bison or I’m gonna _put_ you on the freaking bison,” she says to Jet, who lifts his head just enough to look at Longshot and Smellerbee and then just . . . gets to his feet, looking defeated. 

Aang _really_ doesn’t know what he’s missing here. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says, because he doesn’t have anything better. Jet doesn’t even look at him as he walks past. 

Aang thinks about Kuzon and everyone else he knew in the Fire Nation a hundred years ago, and Jeong Jeong and Iroh and even Zuko, and . . . 

They’re not all like Zhao. They’re not just _monsters_. 

He just doesn’t know if Jet’s ever going to believe that, when he’s never seen anything but this awful, awful war. 

“ _You_ two need an attitude adjustment,” Toph says sourly. Longshot and Smellerbee don’t say anything. “Aang, don’t leave them alone with him again.” 

“Um—okay?” Aang says, still not really understanding, and understanding the dark look Smellerbee shoots Toph even less. Still, maybe having a mediator would help them figure things out, so he figures it can’t hurt. 

He follows Jet to Appa, not really sure what else there is to do. Sokka’s already at the reins, looking impatient and excited, and he guesses he can’t blame him. He’d be excited too, if he could see the monks again. Or . . . anyone, really. Just—anyone. He wouldn’t be picky. 

It’s really not the time to be thinking things like that. They’ve got places to go and work to do and a lot of things to plan out before the eclipse. The Jet problem is kind of a problem, but not compared to everything else. It’s not the time to get caught up in the past. 

Jet’s enough proof of that, really. 

Besides, even _with_ the Jet problem, things are going pretty well right now. He’s got nothing to complain about. 

.

.

.

They’re halfway out of Ba Sing Se before Zuko pops up out of nowhere behind the back of the saddle; Jet yells something unholy and Aang yelps and Sokka nearly drops the reins and man, if there was anything to crash into at a thousand feet he would have just _found_ it. 

“What the _hell_ , man?!” he yells. Zuko looks unconcerned by all the fuss and plants his jerkbending ass down in the saddle like it’s nothing, brushing bison fur off his sleeves. He looks _ridiculous_ in green, Sokka thinks accusingly. 

“I wasn’t going to let you go off without a babysitter and I wasn’t going to argue about it either,” Zuko replies coolly. Sokka decides he hates him even worse than before, forget the pirates and getting planted in the snow and basically everything else ever, _this_ is it. 

“Aang, blow him off,” he says sourly. 

“Sokka!” Aang protests, and Zuko just snorts and folds his arms. 

“Just tell me what your brilliant plan for if Jet starts sparking up _here_ is, and I’ll jump off myself,” he says. 

“. . . frick.”


	9. you can never go home again

“He’s so _stupid_ , Uncle!” Toph shouts in frustration, and Iroh grips her shoulders very gently and leads her over to the corner and she feels awful about everything. Jet was going to—she could tell, his heartbeat didn’t skip at _all_ —Jet was going to let Smellerbee kill him. Because he’s a _bender_? Just that? Toph would _die_ if she couldn’t bend, and Jet finds out he can and it’s like this big and horrible monstrous thing? 

She doesn’t care it’s fire. It’s _bending_. Bending is . . . there’s nothing like it. Nothing it can’t make better. Nothing it can’t soothe, in one way or another. 

“Things are different for Jet,” Iroh says gently. “He distrusts the Fire Nation. He has hated and feared it for as long as he can . . . well, as long as he _could_ remember. This is not an easy thing for a hard-headed young man to accept.” 

“But he can _bend_ ,” Toph protests. “He can fight!” 

“He could already fight,” Iroh reminds her. “And I’m afraid all he ever used that fighting for seems to be going against firebenders.” 

“That’s so _stupid_ ,” Toph seethes again. She used to fight other earthbenders all the time, it was no big deal, it was just a _fight_. Just because—“He was Fire, right, he grew _up_ Fire, what’s so _hard_ now that he remembers?!” she demands angrily. “Most of you guys are jerks but it’s not like you’re _all_ evil!”

“Jet has seen different parts of the war than you have,” Iroh says, very quietly. Toph feels angry and hurt and _stupid_ and really wishes Jet hadn’t already left, because she wants to belt him again. 

“But it’s bending,” she says. “How do you hate your _bending_? You’d have to hate _yourself_!” 

Then she thinks about what Jet was going to let Smellerbee do, and just feels sick. 

“Uncle . . .” she starts, and Iroh’s hand rests on her shoulder. 

“We will think of a way to help him,” he promises her. Toph’s toes curl against the marble floor, but she can’t tell if he’s lying or not. 

.

.

.

“What do you _mean_ , ‘Zuko went with them’?!” Katara demands, horrified. Iroh does not look bothered by the idea, but Iroh is Fire Nation and this is going to end so _badly_ , she knows. “How could he even _think_ about capturing Aang right now?!” 

“Very easily, if he chose to, but I assure you my nephew’s concerns were solely for Jet’s well-being,” Iroh tells her. Which would maybe be reassuring except Iroh is _still Fire Nation_. 

“You’re kidding me,” she says, familiar frustration and anger rising and Zuko makes everything so _hard_. “He attacked our village! He burned down half of Kyoshi Island! He stole my _necklace_!” 

“I, ah, do not believe that is _exactly_ what happened . . .” Iroh tries, looking momentarily awkward, and Katara knows that, but she doesn’t care that Zuko probably just found it while he was stalking through Haru’s village or on the prison ship, it’s her _necklace_ , it’s all she has of Mom it’s all she’ll _ever_ have of Mom again and he thought he could _bargain_ with it! 

“He doesn’t care about people, he just cares about himself!” she shouts. 

“He cares about _our_ people,” Iroh says, and sighs like even he isn’t sure how good a thing that is. Katara _fumes_ , and Toph snorts in annoyance and flips her bangs out of her face. 

“What’s the big deal, Aang can take him,” she says dismissively. 

“Can Sokka?” Katara shoots back, throwing her hands in the air. “Can _Jet_?! He’s in enough trouble, he doesn’t need _Zuko_ following him around making it worse!” 

“Are you kidding, Zuko had to put him out like six _times_ already!” Toph protests, but Toph doesn’t know, of course, Toph wasn’t there when he threatened Gran-Gran, hit Sokka, took Aang away, Toph wasn’t there for any of it—but _she was_. 

“Zuko’s the enemy,” Katara bites off, baring her teeth. 

“He is trying to protect someone he considers one of our people,” Iroh tells her. 

“And what’s he going to do when he figures out Jet’s _not_ one of you people?!” Katara demands. “He hates the Fire Nation! He hates _you_! How exactly do you think putting him in close quarters with the Fire Lord’s _son_ is going to work out?!” 

“Better than if he were left to his own devices, I am afraid,” Iroh says tiredly, and Katara hates him, and knows he’s wrong. 

Except she also knows he’s right. 

.

.

.

“This is really not how I pictured seeing Dad again,” Sokka mutters under his breath as Appa flies away with Aang, and Lee straightens up a little stiffer and Jet just feels like drowning. Why did he let this happen, he wonders, why did he let Toph interfere, why did he get on Appa’s back? 

He’s the one who’s supposed to be in control. 

Sokka takes a steadying breath and shoots them both accusing looks, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Okay, here’s the rules,” he says, ignoring the camp just out of earshot. Jet thinks about how _hard_ that must be for him, after the hungry, aching way the other was staring at it the whole way down. “No freaky magic, no ‘hi my name is Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation’, no talking about the colonies or the happy awesome fun times you had in the motherland or _anything_ , got it? I’ll explain to Dad and he’ll explain to the other warriors, but I am just not dealing with the can of snakeworms that is either of _you_ two explaining.” 

“I don’t want to explain,” Jet says tiredly, closing his eyes and dropping his head back on his neck up towards the sunlight. He’d rather not tell them _anything_. Then he realizes he naturally turned towards the sun and tenses, neck immediately straightening again and eyes snapping back open. 

The sun feels really good. _Should_ it feel this good, or is it because . . . 

“Hah, forget it, I am _not_ lying to my tribe for you, much less my _dad_ ,” Sokka scoffs dubiously. “He’s not going to kill you, okay, but he needs to know.” 

“I can think of one thing he doesn’t need to know,” Lee says, eyeing the camp warily. 

“Yeah, no, not lying to him for _you_ either,” Sokka says, glowering at him. “Anyway you weren’t invited, so if they’re pissed to see you that’s your problem, _Prince_ Jerkbender.” 

“And if they kill me, what exactly are you going to do with Jet?” Lee asks witheringly, eyes narrowing back at him. “He needs training. He needs someone who can _stop_ him.” 

“Please, it’s Jet, he’s needed someone who can stop him as long as I’ve _known_ him,” Sokka snorts, rolling his eyes and starting towards camp. Jet feels a spike of terror through his gut and heat in his mouth, but Lee’s already following Sokka and . . . and Lee’s right. It’s not safe for him to be away from Lee. From someone who can _stop_ him. 

He hurries after them urgently, nearly stumbling, and Lee catches his arm to steady him and he squeezes his eyes shut tight and thinks how _badly_ he wishes Toph hadn’t noticed. He can’t blame Longshot and Smellerbee for forgetting she didn’t see like normal people, though; he hadn’t even thought about it. 

He should have thought about it. It’s his _responsibility_ to think about it, he’s their . . . he’s their leader. 

“Nnn,” Jet manages, trying not to stumble again, and Lee keeps his grip on his arm and Jet wants to vomit, but then Lee pulls his hand against his chest and Jet can feel his breathing. There is . . . there is disturbing _comfort_ in that, and without even thinking about it he buries himself against the other’s side again—like beneath Laogai, like he’s wanted to _since_ Laogai, because when he can hear Lee breathing it’s . . . it’s easier. 

Except it’s horrible. And evil. And _filthy_. 

Sokka glances back at them with a slight frown and starts to open his mouth, but then someone in the camp notices them and calls out and his head immediately whips back around. His whole body lightens, and Jet is glad he doesn’t have to see the other’s face. He feels Lee stiffen, but somehow they end up heading into the camp anyway. Jet isn’t sure if he’s holding Lee’s hand or Lee’s holding his, but he doesn’t care as long as at least one of them still is. 

The men all greet Sokka gladly and something in Jet aches in painful ways, and Sokka looks so happy and eager and excited and nervous, so wanting, so . . . 

Jet hates him right now, and all he can do is concentrate on Lee’s breathing. Anything else would make him spark. Lee’s tense all over, though, and his breathing is slow and quiet and barely discernible. One of the men points to the biggest tent, and Sokka glances back at them for a second but heads to it almost immediately, and Jet feels stranded and abandoned in someone else’s home, in a place he can’t stand, has lost, can’t . . . can’t . . . 

He chokes on his next breath, and Lee tightens his grip on his hand and steps in front of him, hiding the sparks that fall out of his mouth. Jet grips the back of his shirt and thinks how _badly_ he does not want to be here as he struggles to put his breathing back under control again, to make it match Lee’s again. Everyone here is wearing blue and Katara’s mother died by a firebender, firebenders _ravaged_ the South Pole and he is—and he is—he is _here_ with all the warriors of a people who have been systematically, slowly destroyed for a century. He is . . . he . . . 

He can’t breathe, and Lee turns around and grips his wrists, very gently, and suddenly there’s a man with a kind face and vicious burn scars beside them. Jet’s never seen a Water Tribe warrior before, but it’s not hard to see what Sokka’s been trying to emulate in this man. 

It’s not hard to see how he might not like firebenders, either. 

“Are you injured?” the warrior asks. Jet clamps his jaw shut and feels the panic rising, hot and hard and burning up his throat. 

“He’s fine,” Lee says, a little more tersely than Jet thinks is smart to, and he almost laughs at how stupidly defensive the guy still is. Also, _hates Sokka_ for leaving them out here alone, why would he _do_ that to—then he thinks about being in that tent while Sokka is seeing his father again for the first time in years and realizes that it was much, much better to be left out here. 

Spirits, he hates it all. 

“Are you?” the warrior asks. Lee looks insulted. 

_“Yes,”_ he snaps, and squeezes Jet’s wrists. Jet feels this weird flash of desire to hide from this warrior’s serious, concerned eyes—the last time he was this close to a full-grown man he was surrounded by Dai Li, and to be honest he doesn’t have much experience with adults he isn’t fighting. Or he doesn’t anymore, anyway. It used to be he didn’t get to hang out with other kids; their parents told them to stay away from him. Then when they’d . . . when they’d left the colony they’d never had time to stand still and he hadn’t been able to, and maybe . . . he wonders if that was why he never wanted to find another village, after that. Was some part of him hiding from his father, or was some part of him just _lonely_? 

He can’t breathe when he’s thinking about that, though, and then he _does_ hide: he presses in tight against Lee, hiding his face in the other’s shoulder and trying not to think about what, exactly, he’s doing right now _(seeking comfort from Fire Nation SCUM, from a fireBENDER, like it’s natural like it’s normal like it’s the only place he could FIND comfort—)._

“Is there anything I can get you, at least?” the warrior asks, gesturing towards the nearest campfire and not looking troubled by either of their reactions. There’s food over it, and Jet vaguely realizes he hasn’t eaten since . . . since he isn’t actually sure. Since the Dai Li sent him out to trick Aang, he thinks; he thinks they fed him before that. 

He ate their _food_. 

The thought is almost enough to make him sick, but he already felt sick anyway. He couldn’t eat right now if . . . he just couldn’t. 

“We’re _fine_ ,” Lee says, still sounding irritable. Normally Jet would pick that irritability apart, figure out if the other really is _that_ defensive or if he’s scared or suspicious or something else, but he’s still just . . . he’s not himself. Not that “himself” has ever been who he thought it was. Not that he’ll ever be that self again. 

“Geez, you could at least pretend to make a good impression,” he laughs into Lee’s shirt, a little despairingly. They’re going to hate them enough. 

. . . spirits. _Them_. He is a _them_ with a fucking _firebender_ with a-- _SPIRITS_.

“Calm down,” Lee says, his voice sharp like a sword and cutting through Jet’s thoughts like they’re nothing, even though they’re so far from “nothing” it isn’t even funny. “Breathe.” 

Jet laughs, and hates himself. And Lee. And Sokka for bringing them here, and Aang for not just kicking Lee out of the saddle, for not just kicking _him_ out of the saddle, and Lee. Because—because _Lee_. Because he hates him. Because he’s here. Because too many damn things to name, because _Fire_ and all they know is hate and destruction and war and all they care about is _hurting_ people and—

_Mom didn’t care about that,_ something inside him thinks. The part that’s not him.

.

.

.

“The Fire Nation prince,” Hakoda repeats carefully, staring at Sokka. This is really not how he pictured seeing his son again. Well, the beginning parts, those were, but then Sokka changed the subject. 

“Kiiiinda?” Sokka makes an awkward gesture with both hands, mouth twisting in dissatisfaction with his own explanation. His eyes won’t quite stay still, and he keeps jittering in place. Hakoda wants to pat his head to soothe him in the easy way he could when the boy was smaller, but isn’t sure it would work the way it used to. “Kinda exactly, actually, except he’s on all these wanted posters with the word ‘traitor’ in big red letters so I really have no clue what’s happening there. Also they wrote his name with some really _nasty_ characters.” 

“And there’s another one,” Hakoda says, still careful. Sokka’s grown. And gotten a lot more . . . _creative_ in his storytelling. Not to mention the company he keeps. 

“Yeah, that’s Jet, he’s crazy,” Sokka replies dismissively, still making those jerky, urgent little hand gestures. “He kind of thought he was Earth Kingdom for a year or ten so he’s not really good with the freaky magic stuff. Plus side, he’s only burned himself so far and it turns out Katara can heal with _her_ freaky magic, did I mention that? It is _seriously_ useful. I guess his clothes are still a little singed but we didn’t really have the cash to pick him up a spare shirt or anything, I don’t know, do you think that’s like, darn-able or whatever? Or is darning just a sock thing, Aang and I keep trying to learn but Katara’s way better at it.” 

“. . . I really wouldn’t know,” Hakoda manages, blinking. Sokka is learning how to . . . did he just say _darn_? He’s not even sure what darning _is_ , just that Kya and his mother used to do it whenever it came up. 

“Pretty sure it’s just the socks,” Sokka decides, tapping a finger against his jaw quickly. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about locking them up, they’re—well, _Jet’s_ on our side, probably. Zuko isn’t on our side, but he’d be in just as deep shit if the Fire Nation caught him so it’s not like he’s going to go sell us out.” 

“Don’t swear,” Hakoda says automatically, because he remembers a thirteen year-old boy. This is not a thirteen year-old boy sitting in front of him wearing a sheepish grin and a war club and his own boomerang, though. Sokka has come of age; Bato took him ice-dodging and if they had been leaving to fight . . . he is old enough to fight, now. 

“Sorry, Dad,” Sokka says, still sheepish. He is fifteen years old, taller and growing out of being gangly, his body in the process of filling out. Hakoda did not even see him when he _was_ gangly. “Just, um, you know, he’d be in trouble. They don’t like him much, I guess they think he had something to do with his uncle selling out Zhao at the North Pole? Um—that’s a _long_ story . . .” 

“We have time, Sokka,” Hakoda assures him, a little wryly amused. He reaches across the space between them and pats the other’s shoulder, and Sokka’s whole demeanor brightens as he sits up straighter. 

“Okay,” he says happily, and Hakoda decides they should probably get back to the more pressing topic. 

“So you brought along a pair of firebenders,” he says. 

“It’s okay, Dad, we can kick them into the bay if they spark,” Sokka reassures him immediately. Hakoda _seriously_ wonders what kind of combat the boy’s been engaging in. 

“And if they actually _bend_?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Boomerang,” Sokka says immediately, hefting his own. “Zuko _always_ forgets it comes back. Possibly because of the head trauma but you know, that kind of works out for me.” 

This may be a terrible idea, Hakoda decides. 

“Alright, then,” he says anyway. “I trust your judgment, son.” Sokka lights up again, beaming up at him. 

“Zuko’s pretty terrible with plans anyway, he’s kind of that leap before you look type and usually he leaps into, you know, a _snowball_ or a tornado or whatever Katara and Aang feel like whipping up haha, actually that’s kind of funny now because Katara _uses_ this move, um, the scroll said was a water whip—” 

“Sokka,” Hakoda interrupts, but the boy keeps going. 

“—and I’m _really_ sorry about the scroll but to be fair they _were_ pirates and you know, what’re you going to do, and Aang _did_ get those two tribes to stop fighting by lying to them and that worked out okay I think, well we haven’t actually seen them since then but—” 

_“Sokka!”_

“Geh!” Sokka yelps, jumping in his seat. Hakoda gives him a wry look. 

“I believe you, son,” he says. “You don’t have to convince me.” 

“. . . right,” Sokka says, flushing in embarrassment and ducking his head. Hakoda marvels over the changes in him, and at the same time all the things that haven’t changed. 

“Why don’t you introduce me to these friends of yours, then,” he says, reaching over to squeeze the other’s shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile. 

“Okay, that is _way_ too generous a term, but sure, why not.” 

.

.

.

Sokka shows up with an older man who Jet instinctively loathes, and the man is watching both of them with quiet, wary eyes. Jet grits his teeth and closes his eyes and breathes, because fuck everything else. 

“Guys, this is my dad. Dad, these are . . . well, not _the_ guys, just kind of _some_ guys,” Sokka says. Jet can _hear_ the dubious look. “That’s Jet having the freakout and Zuko looking like a jerk. Try to avoid trusting Zuko. Actually neither of them’s very trustworthy but Jet at least won’t sic a sexy bounty hunter on you.” 

“A _what_?” Lee asks incredulously, but Sokka ignores him. 

“Also, Jet is really big on Earth Kingdom-ness. Earth Kingdom-ery. Earthiness in general,” he says, gesturing expansively. “Zuko’s more, I don’t know, like he fell down a dune and got sand in his clothes. He sucks, is what I’m saying. Although he _did_ get Aang not-kidnapped once. Sort of. By kidnapping him incompetently _himself_ , basically . . .” 

“ _You_ try breaking into Pohuai Stronghold singlehanded and see how well it works out for _you_ , Water Tribe,” Lee retorts icily. 

“Yeah, yeah, scary scuttle-y ninja in black, whatever, we’re all impressed,” Sokka snorts, rolling his eyes as he waves the other off and then mouthing _“not impressed”_ to his father. Lee glares. Jet thinks about how much he hates Sokka, again, and how much he does not want to be here. He’d rather be in Ba Sing Se in that tea shop, listening to Mushi lie to him. 

Mushi is Lee’s father, he remembers belatedly, stiffening slightly against the other. Lee’s father is in Ba Sing Se and Sokka and Katara’s is right here and his is—his is—

“Anyway they’re okay other than that,” Sokka says dismissively, making a so-so gesture in the air. Jet laughs and hides his face against Lee’s shoulder, and Lee makes an irritated noise and tightens his grip on him. 

“Peasant,” he says sharply. “The longer we stand here in the middle of camp, the more upset he’s going to get. And I’m going to have _enough_ trouble teaching him anything without him being upset.” 

“Uh, are you serious, because you have got to be the worst teacher _ev_ —”

_“Sokka!”_

“. . . okay, probably not the best time for this, but I cannot _believe_ you know my name.”


	10. I don’t wanna give in, I’d be playing with fire

It’s dark and it’s cold and they’re in a tent. Most of the warriors are sharing with more than a few other men, but there was space enough to stick the—to stick the—to stick _them_ aside, out of the way. Sokka explained the details of what happened, Jet thinks, and Chief Hakoda must’ve explained too because the men stay carefully back and watch them much more warily now, but he doesn’t feel like anything is clearer. 

They ate. The warriors and Sokka ate, at least, and Lee forced Jet to have a few bites of something thick and viscous and slimy—they called it a sea prune but Jet doesn’t think it was actually a real fruit—and a few strips of seal blubber jerky. It tasted . . . not terrible but _weird_ , and Lee looked nauseous when he tried to eat one himself. 

_What, are you too good for it?_ Jet had wanted to sneer, but it hadn’t been important enough to be worth speaking. Not much has been, since yesterday. 

. . . spirits. 

It was only yesterday. 

It was . . . he . . . he hasn’t even _slept_ since then. Hasn’t done anything since then. 

“Nnn,” Jet manages, covering his mouth with his hands, and Lee looks up from whatever he’s doing in the middle of the tent and he is _terrifying_ , he is what killed Jet’s parents except no, he’s not, he’s just Lee. 

Except Lee’s . . . Lee’s not just Lee. Lee’s a prince, or an ex-prince anyway. Mushi’s son and does that mean he was almost . . . does that mean he could’ve been Fire Lord, then, if Mushi hadn’t lost out to his brother? 

“Are you hurt?” Lee asks, very quietly. _Did you burn yourself again,_ he means. Jet’s never heard anyone sound so quiet and so rough at the same time. Not like anyone’s idea of a Fire Lord, which is probably why they don’t want him for one. 

“No,” he mutters, not looking at the other. He can’t hear Lee’s breathing from here, and it’s . . . it’s uncomfortable. He _wants_ to hear it. 

Lee leans closer; not close enough. Jet’s chest aches. 

“How’s your breath?” Lee asks in that quiet, rough voice. It’s freakish to hear from him; Jet expects the anger, not _this_. This is . . . no firebender should speak to him like this. No firebender should _speak_ like this. 

He struggles with his voice for a second, but in the end he says it anyway: 

“I can’t hear you.” 

Lee’s expression is almost impossible to read, but he slips in close and then Jet can hear him breathe and then . . . then it’s better, then. He’s not even as cold, when he’s breathing with Lee. Lee breathes a little deeper, and warmth blossoms in Jet’s aching chest. He clenches his fists, but keeps breathing with him anyway. He’s cold. He’s tired. He’s _sad_. 

He can’t care about that right now. 

Lee breathes a little slower, a little deeper, and Jet feels that warmth a little deeper too and he holds onto that, concentrates on that. It’s warm. It’s good to be warm. It’s . . . it’s _nice_. To be warm. 

Lee comes even closer and breathes out even slower, and Jet imitates him and flame falls off his tongue. He flinches; Lee grips his arm. That lick of flame falls apart between them, lazy flickers and sparks, and Jet’s breath cracks into a sob. Lee tenses, and frustration snaps across his face. For a second Jet thinks he’ll say something and he’ll have to kill the bastard, but instead Lee grips his arm even tighter and Jet breathes out soft little licks of flame again and it’s terrifying, it’s _terrifying_ and he wants to _scream_. 

But the flames fall apart and curl into nothing and Lee’s hand on his arm is just warm, like the sun he turned his face to this afternoon. 

“Cold,” Jet mutters, because it’s . . . it seems like a good idea. Lee breathes deeper and Jet breathes with him and he feels . . . really, really warm, it’s _good_. Why doesn’t he always feel like this, he wonders distantly; he should always feel like this. 

“Better?” Lee asks in that quiet rasp that Jet could learn to hate, and he just shakes his head. Nothing can be better. Nothing will _ever_ be better. 

He would’ve rather let Long Feng kill him. 

“Jet—” Lee starts, and then he’s _furious_. 

“You said being on your own isn’t always the best thing,” he bites off harshly, and Lee’s hand stills against his arm. 

“It’s not,” he says, carefully. 

“But you didn’t want anything to do with us,” Jet snaps, the words sharp enough to hurt his throat. “You’re here because I’m—because I’m _this_. You meant being apart from your _nation_ wasn’t the best thing.” 

“Yes,” Lee says, with no trace of shame or hesitation. Jet hates him. 

“I’m not—whatever you think I’ll do, I _won’t_ ,” he hisses, hands coming up between them but not quite getting to shoving them apart. 

Lee is warm. 

And he looks angry. 

“I don’t need anything from you, idiot,” he snaps. “You need _me_!” 

“Do you like that?” Jet demands, the question solely reflex. He isn’t even sure what made him think to ask it. Lee looks stricken, then angry again, and Jet keeps talking because he needs this to be horrible. “The Fire Nation doesn’t want you, right, so if _I_ need you is that—” 

“Shut up!” Lee snarls. “It’s not like—it isn’t like that, it’s my _responsibility_!” 

“But the Fire Nation doesn’t want you.” Jet stares at the edge of the other’s jaw; anything is better than looking at those disgusting yellow eyes. “Right?” 

“You don’t know anything _about_ it,” Lee hisses. Jet expects . . . sparks or steam or _something_ but still it isn’t there, still Lee is not showing him the _fire_. Liar, he thinks. He’s a _firebender_ , isn’t he, he’s one of those—he’s a—

He’s a firebender. So why won’t he _bend_? 

“I know they don’t want you,” Jet says. Lee’s eyes flare wide and flame-bright and his teeth bare viciously and he _still doesn’t spark_. 

Jet hits him. It seems like a good idea at the time, and it keeps seeming like a good idea until Lee hits back. He’s supposed to firebend but he doesn’t, he punches him instead and then Jet’s furious and it’s like that damned tea shop all over again, no matter what he does this lying bastard won’t—fucking— _bend_! 

The fight is fast and messy and Jet keeps wanting to panic because Lee’s body is hot and heavy and the air’s hotter and heavier than that and every time a firebender got him on the ground like this—spirits every time, he, it was always—he’s seen people _die_ like this. And he wants to maybe, it would be better if he did, but he doesn’t want to _burn_. 

Lee hits him in the jaw with a jab that clicks his teeth together, and Jet knees him in the gut and wants his swords. A knife. Something sharp and ruthless, something that won’t be weak, something that can cut anything out of existence and not hesitate to do it. Lee hits him in the jaw again, and Jet shoves him over and pins him into the furs and just can’t stop _hitting_ him after that. It’s cold. It’s cold and there’s men who’d probably rather have killed them the moment they got here outside and Sokka is with his father and Lee won’t _bend_. Why won’t he, they never do anything else, fire and destruction is all they are, they even destroy _themselves_ with it—Lee’s scar, all he can think about is Lee’s scar and what happened to his mother, what—what that bastard _did_ to—

Lee throws him across the tent and his back hits the support pole. The whole tent shakes, and Lee breathes out slow. 

“Idiot,” he says harshly, and the front of the tent opens and the man with the scarred arm leans in—Bato, that was what Sokka called him. Jet stares at him a little, thinking how stupid and crazy he is to just lean into a tent with a pair of fighting—with _them_. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks. 

Jet is so _sick_ of that question. 

“It’s fine,” Lee says. There’s blood on his mouth and nose and in his teeth, and a rapidly-swelling bruise mottling the edge of his scar. Jet isn’t bleeding, but all the places Lee hit him ache down to the bone. “Go away.” 

Bato just looks at them, then draws the front of the tent open wider. 

“You should get some fresh air,” he advises. Lee’s eyes narrow and the cold Bato’s letting in feels horrible, but Jet’s out of the tent before he can think anymore than that. He doesn’t want to be _in_ there, warm and uncomfortable/comfortable with Lee. 

Except Lee follows him, of course, and Lee’s right to. 

He could spark. 

He could spark, and what’s going to happen without Lee if he sparks? He’ll set something—he’ll set something on _fire_. It’ll go up in sparks and pieces and ashes and embers and he’ll _burn_ , everything will burn, it’s all going to go up and it’ll all _burn_ and—and—

“Breathe,” Lee says, touching the center of his back. Jet feels sick, mostly because he feels soothed. He can tell Lee’s deliberately breathing louder than he should be; he’s been doing that since he found him under the lake. 

Lee found him. He ran away he wanted to die he wanted to be _nothing_ but Lee found him and made him not be nothing. And then he told them or Aang’d already told them and Toph stopped Smellerbee and Sokka dragged him out here and Katara looked at him with those _eyes_ , he can’t stand even the memory of those eyes, they were too much—

“She’ll never forgive me now,” Jet says. Lee blinks, and his hand falls away. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Katara,” Jet says, because Lee is the only one who would ever listen now anyway, and gestures helplessly at himself. “Not after I did _this_.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” Lee says, frowning. He has that stubborn, stupid look that makes it really clear how little he understands how people work. Jet wants to laugh, or to hit him again. 

“I did a _lot_ of things,” he says, and then he looks at Bato who hasn’t actually walked away, for some reason. “Who _are_ you, anyway?” he demands. “The other guy’s Sokka’s dad, right, but he looked almost the same way with you.” 

Bato looks a little surprised to be spoken to— _then why the hell are you still HERE?_ Jet’s brain snaps—but not bothered. It would be better if he were. He should look distrusting, he should spit on them, he should throw them into the ocean tied to rocks to _drown_. Jet saw someone do that to a firebender once. It made sense, at the time. 

It still makes sense, so he doesn’t know why no one’s _doing it_. 

“I’m Chief Hakoda’s second. I helped raise Sokka and Katara,” Bato says. Jet scowls automatically—he hates them, he really does _hate_ them for all they had, for being wanted like _that_ by their whole village—and Lee frowns. Jet tries not to think about the people who didn’t die. There was a reason he was in that forest and that reason was that they wanted him _gone_. 

They didn’t even know. They just didn’t want the burden of another mouth to feed while they rebuilt, especially not a mouth no one had liked that much anyway, he’d been a pain, they hadn’t liked him. Too many questions, too cheeky, _soul of a spiritsdamned con artist,_ he could go on all night. 

He’d forgotten why he’d left. That he hadn’t actually wanted to, he means. 

It’s been a long time since anyone’s made Jet do something he didn’t want to. 

“Second in command?” Lee asks, with an odd doubtful tone. Bato smiles. 

“That too,” he says. “Why don’t you two go down by the water for a while if you’re having trouble sleeping? Most of the men find it soothing.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Jet asks, giving him a cracked grin. 

“I like the water,” Lee says, and Jet startles a little and stares at him. 

“What?” he asks disbelievingly. “Liar, you do _not_.” 

“I lived at sea for three years,” Lee answers, frowning faintly at him. “I miss it.”

Jet opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and every attempt at a thought just trails off altogether. He can’t believe that. Lee is _Fire_ , why would he ever feel like that? 

Lee is Fire, and frowning at him like he’s the one acting crazy. 

Then again, he usually is, isn’t he. 

“Okay, fine,” Jet says, laughing in that new and horrible way he really wishes he didn’t have. “We’ll go down to the water.” Lee’s expression turns uncomfortable at the laugh, but they go anyway. Bato doesn’t come, but Jet can feel him watching them. It makes him feel a little better, like if he does something stupid there’ll be someone around to stop him. Which Lee is technically for, but also can’t be because Lee is Fire, Lee grew _up_ Fire. He couldn’t even be a colony brat, couldn’t even give him _that_ : he had to be Fire all the way through. 

It’s really cold on the beach, but it’s colder right next to the water. Lee’s breathing changes and Jet’s matches it, and then it’s not as bad. He pretends there isn’t a reason for that. 

“This is so stupid,” he says, crouching at the edge of the wet sand and watching the waves come up over it, just out of reach. Lee is looking out across the water, past the boats to the ocean and horizon, or maybe at the moon. It’s fat and heavy and it and the stars are reflecting in the water. It’s choppy, and Jet’s never seen so much water. They flew over it, but he wasn’t really looking. 

“They’re being very . . . polite,” Lee says, slightly warily. 

“Very _stupid_ ,” Jet says shortly, grabbing up a fistful of damp sand and squeezing it tight in his hand. “I don’t know why they even let us stay. They _shouldn’t_ have let us stay.” 

“Sokka vouched for us,” Lee points out, tone both dubious and disdainful over the idea. “The Water Tribe is like that.” 

“What, a freakin’ _kid_ tells them something crazy and they believe him?” Jet asks, laughing that awful laugh again and dropping the sand. 

“He _is_ the chief’s son,” Lee says. His voice sounds a little odd, and Jet’s eyes slant towards him. He wonders if Lee resents that; his nation doesn’t want him or his father, but the Southern Water Tribe trusts Sokka with their lives and safety. For all they know he and Lee are spies or assassins or any number of horrible things, not that there’s much more horrible than . . . than what they are. 

He still can’t think it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think it. 

“That matters?” he asks. “Whoever the hell his dad is, he’s still a kid.” 

“If he’s had his manhood rites, he’s a warrior of the tribe,” Lee replies absently, still looking across the water. Jet wishes there was _anyplace_ that would count him as a warrior that early or that easily: in Ba Sing Se no one believed him, in the forest no one trusted him, in his village . . . 

No adult has _ever_ believed or trusted him. Mushi, maybe, but Mushi was a liar anyway. 

“I hate it here,” Jet says. Lee grunts in assent, and Jet hates _him_ for being . . . just for being understandable, most of the time. The almost-Fire-Lord’s son should not be like that. 

But the two of them also shouldn’t be here.


	11. a lullaby or something miserable that will keep me up at night

_bright. dark. bright in the dark._

_mother_

_“don’t stop. don’t be caught.”_

_mother?_

_mother where_

_mother_

_bright and dark, everywhere, bright and dark and bright and father’s voice, father’s smirking face, why did he smirk like that what did he even WANT it was all burning and he didn’t even have what he’d come for and mother mother mother wasn’t mother wasn’t here anymore_

_was he just mad was this just getting her back? this was just this was only oh spirits oh spirits so bright in the dark_

_so bright because she’s BURNING—_

Jet’s eyes snap open in the dark and he sees the flash of something bright and then he _screams_. The furs he’s lying on are on fire and he jerks back from them in a panic and the fire _flares_ up to the roof of the tent, a huge and consuming and horrible thing the exact thing he has _always_ known fire was. It’s so hot. It’s so hot it’s so hot it’s so hot he’ll _burn_ —

The light goes out, the heat vanishes, and then there’s just Lee, crouched in the ashes and staring at him in the dark with the worst expression. 

Jet manages one hoarse sound, then snaps in on himself in a fetal curl of panic. He can’t deal with this, he thinks, and that’s when the warriors get there. There’s some shouting and then Lee’s snarling EarthandFire curses and Jet hears struggling but he can’t can’t can’t _can’t_ —

He can’t breathe without Lee close enough to hear. 

.

.

.

The good news, Zuko thinks, is that they don’t attack Jet. 

Everything else is bad news. Jet burned down half the tent and is having the world’s quietest panic attack in the ashes and the warriors are pissed and basically dragged Zuko out by the hair and apparently think he did it, and did it _intentionally_ because what, being a firebender is all the reason you need to burn something down? But Uncle always said the point was _not_ burning, it’s all about control: your breath, the flame, your heart. 

Not punching one of your hosts in the throat for manhandling you. 

“Get _off_ me!” Zuko snarls, trying to break free, but that’s no easy task when he’s trying not to injure anyone and every member of said “anyone” is at least ten years older and the better part of a foot taller than him. Then the warrior from before—Bato, the chief’s second—is suddenly there and grabbing his arm, and Zuko is so _furious_ then— 

“Let him go,” Bato orders sharply, and the warriors look startled, but they do, and the next thing Zuko knows he’s actually . . . the man actually pulls him _behind_ himself. 

He will never understand people, he thinks. 

“What is this?” Chief Hakoda asks as he steps out of the shadows, looking serious and tired and obviously just woken up. Belatedly, as the rest of the camp gathers up, Zuko realizes it really wasn’t more than four or five warriors who’d dragged him out of the tent to begin with. The Southern Water Tribe’s forces are small, but there are far more of them who _aren’t_ immediately blaming him than not. 

“See, this is why we can’t have nice things,” Sokka mutters, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and giving Zuko a baleful look. He bares his teeth reflexively; Sokka bares his right back. Bato sighs. 

“The firebenders were fighting,” one of the warriors who grabbed Zuko says tersely, jerking his head back towards the tent. “When we got there the other one was down, and this one was going for him.” 

“Wh—are you _stupid_ , he was panicking!” Zuko snarls, glaring at the man. “I was trying to calm him _down_!” 

“Um,” Sokka says, just staring at the ruined and smoldering tent. “Riiiight. How much panic we talkin’ here? Like, scale of one to full-scale invasion.” 

“How am I supposed to know, he had a _nightmare_!” Zuko snaps, ducking around Bato and trying to shove past the warriors to get to Jet. He couldn’t think of anything more subjective than how badly a dream had scared someone; how were you even supposed to know? But Jet was his responsibility, he’d _made_ Jet his responsibility the moment he’d followed the feeling of fire under the lake, and he couldn’t just leave him in the ashes. 

“Let him through,” Chief Hakoda says, and the warriors do, and Zuko tries not to fume and stalks back to the remains of the tent. He stops at the edge of the ashes, and breathes in slow and deep to calm himself. Jet will copy his breathing, he reminds himself, and Jet copying his breathing when he’s _angry_ won’t end well. 

“Jet,” he says carefully, and it doesn’t sound angry so he steps into the ash, stirring up grey-white clouds across the sand. Jet is still, curled up small, and doesn’t acknowledge him at all. “Jet, you didn’t hurt anyone,” he tries, which is basically true. He inhaled more smoke than he would’ve liked to, his robes are probably ruined, and if he’d been anyone else he’d have _serious_ burns right now, but that doesn’t mean much: first of all, he’s _not_ anyone else. Clothes are a lot easier to replace than skin, and he’s survived much worse than a sore throat. 

Jet still doesn’t uncurl, though. 

Zuko looks around slightly helplessly, hating the warriors’ presence and feeling like Uncle should just _appear_ and solve this, this is not the kind of thing he’s _for_ , but of course Uncle is in Ba Sing Se and he’s alone here. Except for Jet, Jet who hates him and everyone else from their nation. Zuko doesn’t understand that; he sometimes feels a certain disdain for the Water Tribe and Earth Kingdom, but the people he’s hated were just _people_. Not a whole place, just people who came from it. The people he’s _liked_ were just . . . they were just people.

But Jet . . . Jet who doesn’t have a family or a home and looks like every single fucking _thing_ is _agony_ , like nothing can ever be okay again, like nothing will—nothing could—

Like there’s no _hope_. 

It’s a feeling Zuko knows, but not one he knows how to help. 

“Jet,” he manages, very carefully, and kneels in the ashes next to the other. 

.

.

.

It’s not that he wasn’t listening before, but Jet doesn’t really register that Lee’s name isn’t Lee until the moment Sokka dumps a skinful of ice-cold seawater over his head. 

Like he didn’t register a lot of things, apparently. 

“Idiot!” Zuko shouts at Sokka, and Jet blinks, slowly, and lifts his head. 

“What, it snapped him _out_ of it, didn’t it?” Sokka shoots back. The warriors look torn between laughing and being disturbed, and Jet blinks again and looks down at his dripping hands and tries to . . . remember . . . 

Ah. 

His fingers curl in on themselves and clench white-knuckled, and Zuko keeps shouting at Sokka who shouts back and Chief Hakoda and most of the warriors just watch with wry amusement, but Bato crouches down next to Jet and offers him a dry cloth. 

“Bad dream?” he asks, and sounds kind of . . . nice about it, which sends an uncomfortable prickle up Jet’s spine. 

“No,” he mutters, which is technically true: it was a dream, yeah, but it was bad _memories_. He ignores the cloth, and looks at L . . . at Zuko. He’s angry and defensive and he and Sokka are still arguing, but most of the warriors around them don’t seem concerned and . . . why is it they don’t seem that concerned, he’s _Fire_ , he’s Fire and they all _know_ and—Jet stops himself, and looks a little closer at Zuko. Analyzes: immature frustration and messy too-short hair and a years-old burn scar that could only have come from a firebender and only been intentional and would he have even been old enough to _fight_ then, how old would he have been then? 

Realizes: Zuko’s not much older than Sokka, and he’s not wearing armor. 

“What the hell,” Jet says under his breath, and tries not to laugh how _stupid_ , this is stupid. They’re warriors and they’ve been at war and they haven’t seen children in a long time, and they think _they’re_ children. But Zuko is not a child, and Jet is _infinitely_ not a child. Even Sokka is not a child; there were pieces of stories that Jet caught, and the way Sokka thinks twice about every new thing he sees, and how the first time those eyes saw _him_ they narrowed. 

Kids never look at Jet the way Sokka did. 

But the three of them are something in between boys and men, and to Water Tribe eyes maybe there’s no such something, maybe you’re one or the other. Or maybe they just missed their boy, and like seeing him with people his own age. Jet’s no good at figuring out adults outside of combat situations, though. He’s never really _needed_ to, for so long adults were just in the way, were . . . just in the way. 

That’s all he really cares to think about that. 

“Jet—” Bato starts quietly, and Jet’s spine prickles uncomfortably again and he makes a mangled noise and his fingers drag through wet ash and sand and he thinks: _I did this_. They flooded the town with blasting jelly, he’d always loved the sight of a good explosion, the _rightness_ of it, he’d always been fastest at lighting the fires at camp and his food had never burned and _he’d_ —how many times had he fought firebenders and never _really_ been burned, never gotten a scar like the one on Zuko’s face or under Smellerbee’s gloves, Pipsqueak’s gut, the Duke’s shoulder, Sneers’—Sneers’—

He never got burned like that. Even the burns on his hands and arms right now, the ones he wouldn’t let Katara heal but she insisted on bandaging, they’re flashes of nothing, they won’t even _scar_. 

Not like Bato’s arm. Not like Zuko’s face. 

“Jet?” Bato repeats, in a very different tone of voice, and Jet realizes he’s staring at the other’s arm. That he almost reached out and _touched_ —he snatches his hand back fast, and his face goes white. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. It sounds wrong, like a lie, a filthy dirty thing from a filthy dirty monster, because a firebender would never be _sorry_ , but it’s what he says anyway. Bato’s eyes soften, and Jet feels jitter-crazy and bares his teeth. 

He’s always been so terrified of scars like those. 

“It’s alright. You don’t have to apologize,” Bato says, his big long hand lying flat on the ground between them, white with ash and gritty with sand and warped with scar tissue and Jet wants to vomit. 

“It’s not alright,” he says. It will never be alright. It wasn’t even alright _before_ , it was just . . . survivable. “His name isn’t Lee.” Bato’s expression turns faintly puzzled, and his eyes flick towards Sokka and . . . and Zuko. 

“The prince?” he assumes. Jet nods, jerky and sharp, and Bato gives him a long look. Jet doesn’t even try to analyze what the man’s thinking: he’s thinking plenty himself. Like how _his_ name isn’t Jet, and how most of the kids in the forest . . . they’d never used their real names, in the forest. They’d named each other, except for Jet who’d named himself, and even he’d never known the names most of them’d had before—he’d never _wanted_ to. 

He never wanted them not to lie to him. 

“Zuko,” he says under his breath, hating . . . too many things.


	12. mistakes we knew we were making

Iroh leaves the children in the Upper Ring and goes to see the Avatar’s zoo. It’s busy, and an easy place to disappear for a while: he’s just an old man getting a little exercise and looking at exotic animals. He buys a little honey cake from a vendor and sits down on a bench and watches the families pass through, and lets himself feel the ghost of regret, just for a moment. The tea shop was a nice idea. Zuko growing into a normal young man no one was trying to kill or capture was a nice idea. Being out of the _war_ was a nice idea, but like always it’s found them again. 

Then he gets back to the bigger concern, which is just what they’re going to do with Jet. Longshot and Smellerbee were not cooperative, and although he asked Katara what questions he could, she mostly knows the boy’s negative side, and that colors her opinion of him. She is a remarkably compassionate girl, but only if she feels that compassion is deserved. 

Jet is untrained. He is a firebender of alarming raw power who has suppressed that power for _years_ , quite probably for longer than he _wasn’t_ suppressing it, and at seven years old was considered skilled enough to be conscripted into a military academy—to the _capitol’s_ military academy. Iroh can think of maybe half a dozen firebenders he’s personally known who demonstrated that level of skill so young, and half of _them_ were of the blood. His father and grandfather, his brother and niece, Jeong Jeong, a few men his father granted him the privilege of commanding . . . 

He cannot imagine the sheer force of will that would be required to completely ignore one’s bending, and he cannot imagine a single bender he knows accomplishing it. Jeong Jeong is one of the greatest masters their people has ever known—that any element has ever known—and he _wars_ with the act of quelling his bending. 

If Jet really managed it for all those years . . . 

There is something _wrong_ with the boy, if he really did that. 

.

.

.

Jet is hyperventilating and hyperventilating means he's _sparking_ and he can't have always been in control, he thinks, his life has been too much hell for him to _always_ have been in control, how does that even—how does that even _work_ , all those times he almost died, this never happened all those times but now it won't _stop_ happening. For no reason. For any reason. And now he can't breathe without— 

"Breathe." 

—without Lee telling him how to. 

"Breathe." 

Zuko. 

Without Zuko telling him how to. 

"Shut up," Jet tries to say, but Zuko inhales when he tries to speak and then he has to inhale too and trips all over the words. _"Stop—"_

"Breathe," Zuko says again, very quietly. His fingers curl against the base of Jet's neck and it hurts. It's really _uncomfortable_. It hurts. Just being—just being _touched_ like that . . . 

_"Stop it,"_ Jet hisses around that not-laugh he can't stop making. Having. Doing. He hates it. He hates _Zuko_ and he hates Zuko for not being Lee and he hates _himself_ for not being—

His breath control breaks and he breathes out a lick of fire and Zuko bares his teeth and breathes it _in_ , and his eyes are so yellow and bright they're _gold_. And Jet hates that too, and hates his own sparks in Zuko's mouth, and breathes out flame again because . . . because why wouldn't he. Because why shouldn't he. 

Because. 

Another lick of flame curls in the air between their mouths, and Zuko leans in and swallows it and then . . . then Jet just doesn’t know what else he can do. 

.

.

.

Sokka takes a collection around the camp and comes back with an armful of mismatched blue clothing, none of which fits quite right. Jet has never had room to be picky about fit, though. The color, though . . . he’s worn blue a long time, it shouldn’t matter, but it still looks _wrong_ when he holds it in his hands. 

Zuko dresses immediately and without hesitation, even though his pale skin and bright eyes look bizarre against the blue. His slippers are ruined and no one had spare boots, but that doesn’t really matter on sand anyway, Jet guesses. The pants Sokka dug up for him are fit at the hip but hang too long, almost to his ankles, and the shirt nearly goes past his knees. He doesn’t bother tying it, and he’s not as skinny as Jet remembers. Not as starved, more accurately. 

It kind of . . . it makes Jet angry seeing that. Somehow. 

The length of his own pants is better than Zuko’s but they hang way too low, and he could probably wrap the shirt around himself twice. Even pulling it on he feels freakish and strange and like a liar. Again. 

He doesn’t like being in blue, he realizes as Sokka grins at him. 

“Hey, that looks way better!” Sokka says cheerfully, folding his arms across his chest. “Way less _crispy_ and totally manly. If, you know, you actually fit in them.” 

“Like they’d fit you any better,” Zuko says dubiously, adjusting his belt. 

“Well, since _I_ didn’t set myself on _fire_ they don’t have to, do they,” Sokka retorts smugly, and Zuko scowls and just stalks past him. Jet follows without really thinking about it, or where they’re going. Sokka follows too, apparently just to keep being Sokka. “Anyway, you were wearing a _dress_ last night, how is this not an improvement?” 

“Says the guy who fought me in makeup _twice_ ,” Zuko retorts, and Sokka turns bright red.

“That was _war paint_!” 

“That was _lipstick_.” 

“Only the _second_ time!” 

Jet almost laughs, almost wants the story behind that argument, but the moment he starts to bile rises in his throat and it all dies between his teeth. He should not be here. He should not be alive for this conversation, he is a liar and a monster and a horrible _thing_ — 

Zuko stops in the middle of a clear stretch of sand, shrugs off his borrowed shirt, and tosses it aside. His bare foot slides across the ground, leaving an arc in the sand as he turns, and his body drops into an unfamiliar stance. Jet stares blankly; Sokka’s head tilts in bemusement. 

Then Zuko’s fingers steeple in front of himself, and Jet remembers it’s not an unfamiliar stance. It’s one of the basic first meditations, he’s done it a _thousand_ times. It and the next four sets, and a dozen others just like them. 

“I already know this one,” he says automatically, not thinking past that, and Zuko looks surprised. “I know _all_ of these.” Zuko’s expression turns affronted, and he frowns at him. 

“You haven’t done them since you were seven,” he says. 

“I _know_ them,” Jet snaps, bristling reflexively. He doesn’t want to—he doesn’t want—Zuko is trying to _teach him_ and this isn’t something he wants to see. This isn’t something he wants to _remember_. It’s not . . . 

It’s not who he is. It’s _not_. It’s a kid who didn’t know better, who didn’t know, a kid, he couldn’t have known it was bad and sick and _wrong_ and—

And the happiest he ever, ever remembers being. 

Nothing in his mind is sweeter than the memory of doing this, of doing this _well_ , of his mother’s slick red-lipped smile of pleasure and his father’s broad hand patting his topknot and telling him he’d done well. That he was. That he was _good_. 

He remembers his father was proud, when he learned these forms. They were easy for him. Not for the other kids, but for him they were easy. 

“Show me,” Zuko says, straightening up, and Jet feels _loathing_ flare up hot and sharp inside. 

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not doing that.” Zuko frowns. 

“This is what I’m _here_ for,” he says, sounding irritated. 

“I’m not _doing_ that,” Jet snaps, and he can feel his eyes go too wide and feel his teeth grit and his skin go hot and prickly and achy and he wants to _stab_ him he wants to tear him _up_ —

“Uh, Jet, isn’t the point of learning this stuff so you don’t _have_ to use it?” Sokka asks doubtfully, cocking an eyebrow at him. Jet starts to say _yes_ , starts to agree, but learning how not to do it means _doing_ it and that’s not—that’s not right, he can’t _do that_. Just not doing it worked before, it’s not any _different_ now, why does everyone thinks he has to do it _now_?! 

“I’m not going to,” he hisses. “I’m _never_ doing that.” 

“Then you’re going to do what you did last night to a _person_ ,” Zuko snaps, and everything drops away and suddenly Jet’s vision swims and he can’t _breathe_ —

Something flares bright and someone yells and something crashes into Jet and—and—

Zuko’s hand presses the full length of his throat and holds his head back to the sky and his other arm is wrapped so _tight_ around him, so tight their chests are pressed together, so tight Jet can feel—

“Breathe with me,” Zuko says. Lee says. Lee who was supposed to be . . . Lee who’s a _liar_ and was supposed to be his friend and they were supposed to be part of each other’s second chances but _not like this_. 

Jet screams and it spills out _fire_ and Lee does not jerk back. Lee _should_ jerk back, and does when Jet punches him in the temple. He reels once, and Sokka shouts again, and Jet lets himself stop thinking. He’s good at thinking, but this is a moment he just can’t stand to. 

Lee catches himself, and Jet kicks him in the head. Sokka doesn’t yell again, but something whistles sharp through the air and Jet dodges just in time to avoid taking a boomerang to the back of the head, and swings a slicing arm back behind himself without even looking. Sokka shrieks, and Lee comes back up with fire in his eyes and an empty palm headed for Jet’s gut. He sidesteps instantly, and Lee throws himself forward and plants his hands in the sand and his leg swings out for his neck like a scythe. Jet hits the ground, and Sokka is cursing shrilly somewhere behind them, and Lee’s eyes keep _burning_. 

He doesn’t advance, though, and he doesn’t bend. 

Jet rolls to his feet, and tackles the other into the dunes. Lee punches him and he punches back and Lee punches him again and Jet punches with _fire_ and then it’s not the same fight anymore, Lee rolls backwards and breaks flame with a sharp sweep of his hand and Jet throws himself after him, matching him for every move because he already knows them, doesn’t he, he learned them long long ago he always knew _just_ how a firebender would fight he fucking _hates them_ —

Lee stops dead and hits the ground, and that’s the only warning Jet gets before Sokka’s boomerang comes back out of nowhere and hits him in the face.


	13. I know that you’ve been burned but every fire is a lesson learned

“If he doesn’t remember, we’re not telling him,” Sokka says immediately, and Zuko nods in silent agreement, then gets to treating the burns. Sokka winces at the contact of the other’s too-warm fingers against his injured arms, but doesn’t complain—Jet’s out, unconscious in the sand with a bloody face, and he wants the guy to stay that way. 

Well, not so much the bloody face part. 

At least Zuko thought to bring burn salve to jerkbending training, so that’s something. Sokka’s going to need to get new armguards, though, and get them _without_ anyone seeing the damage. He’ll tell Dad and Bato tonight, but he doesn’t want to walk right into camp with an unconscious Jet, a scuffed-up Zuko, and obvious burns all up his forearms. 

Yeah, no. Bad plan. 

“This is pretty bad,” Zuko murmurs as he finishes salving one arm, and Sokka laughs roughly and grins at him. He _knows_ it’s bad: the skin is red and white and he’s pretty sure there’s blood in the blisters, and it’s not like he’s never seen a burn before. And also, oh yeah, _it hurts like hell_. 

“And here I figured _you’d_ be the first guy to burn me,” he says jokingly, then hisses through his teeth as Zuko starts on his other arm. Crap. No really, he _so_ gets why Katara cried when Aang burned her. He’s kind of feeling like crying himself. “He totally didn’t even notice bending, did he.” 

“No, he didn’t,” Zuko says, and Sokka laughs. It is _way_ too horrible that the thought of accidentally burning someone was what panicked Jet enough to accidentally burn someone. 

Also, ow. Did he say ow yet? 

“It really _hurts_ ,” he says, stupid and plaintive for just a second, and Zuko stares at him out of scarred eyes. For the first time, Sokka actually wonders where that scar came from. 

“I know,” Zuko says, and Sokka exhales. 

“This sucks,” he mutters, and winces again as Zuko applies more salve. He wishes Katara were here. It’d be really, really convenient if she were, anyway. Also it’d save them some burn salve, and they’re probably going to need that. “Okay, you’re going to have to go back to camp and get me some arm guards or something. Tell ‘em mine . . . I don’t know, washed out to sea or something and I sent you back for another pair so we could keep training.” 

“. . . why would you even _do_ that?” Zuko asks, giving him a bemused look. Sokka thinks about smacking him upside the head, but you know, can’t move his arms without wanting to scream. 

“Maybe I didn’t want you two burning down the _camp_ again, I don’t know, dammit, this freakin’ _hurts_ , okay?!” he snaps, and Zuko’s eyes sharpen for a second but then just . . . don’t, pretty much. Sokka still feels pissed, but what, they’re going to throw down like this? Yeah, no. If Zuko just grabbed his arm and squeezed he’d probably pass out. “Sorry,” he mutters, and scowls at the ocean. 

“It’s a good enough excuse,” Zuko says, letting go of his arm and screwing the salve jar back shut. Sokka would really, really like to lie down now, but that’s definitely a horrible idea. They’re only completely surrounded by sand and salt water. “I don’t know if you should cover them up like that, though.” 

“I don’t have to worry about them healing quick, Katara can fix them as soon as we get back to Ba Sing Se,” Sokka says firmly. “We just need Jet not to find _out_ about them.” 

“That’s only going to last until you need grip strength,” Zuko points out, and Sokka scowls. 

“Just because that’s right doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it,” he says. “Anyway, it’s Jet. I’m not worried about needing grip strength, I’m worried about his freakish talent for _noticing_ shit. Two days into us knowing the guy he had Aang and Katara flooding a _town_ for him!” 

“Like the Avatar’s never flooded anything before?” Zuko asks, looking dubious. Sokka scowls again. 

“I am pretty sure there’s a difference between getting ridden by a vengeful spirit to smack down a _huge navy_ in self-defense and trying to flush out a tiny village full of innocent civilians just to get at the soldiers in it, okay?” he says in exasperation, and lets himself tap back into all the pissed-off feelings because they’re way better than the oh-fuck-it- _hurts_ thing. “I mean, maybe that’s just me but I don’t see the comparison.” 

“He did that?” Zuko asks, a startled look flashing across his face. Sokka’s about to snipe something about how it’s not like Zuko wouldn’t do the same, _hello_ Kyoshi Village, except, well . . . nobody _died_ on Kyoshi. And all things considered, it would’ve been pretty easy for somebody to die. Still—

“It’s not like you’re Mr. Sensitive either, jackass,” he snorts, eyeing the other. “Tell me about the time you sold my sister out to pirates again?” 

“She _did_ steal from them,” Zuko points out irritably. 

“And you stole from _Zhao_ , wasn’t he technically above you?” Sokka asks, arching an eyebrow at him, and Zuko scowls. 

“I’m going to get the arm guards,” he grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. 

“ _Subtly_ , right?” Sokka presses. “Because you’re a pretty crappy liar, so you know, try not to give us away _instantly_.” 

“I’ll be subtle, dammit!” Zuko snaps back, and glares at him and stalks back towards camp. 

“Subtle like _smart people_ do it!” Sokka yells after him. Zuko makes a nasty gesture and Sokka makes a face at his back, then looks down at his arms and tries not to cringe at the sight of them. His eyes flick over to Jet a second later, still on his back in the sand and all messy, rag-doll sprawl. He really hopes the guy won’t wake up before Zuko gets back. He does _not_ need to deal with that freakout. 

Meanwhile, though, he can at least clean the blood off the poor bastard. 

. . . probably, anyway. The way he feels, even a wet rag might be too much to handle right now. 

.

.

.

Zuko comes back to camp looking unusual in blue and battered again, the bruises from his last argument with Jet overshadowed by new companions, and Bato sighs to himself and carefully sets aside Hakoda’s war club without finishing sharpening it. The men don’t like the way the firebenders interact—a master and student who _punch_ each other is not the Water Tribe way—but Bato prefers the sight of bruises to burns. He suspects it’s Jet who’s starting the fights anyway, all things considered. 

Zuko hesitates, looking around at the men, and for a moment nearly looks conflicted. It’s hard to see him as a prince, disowned or not. Bato tries not to smile and approaches him himself. 

“Jet’s not back yet, if you were looking for him,” he tells the boy. Zuko looks slightly alarmed at being addressed, then stiffens defensively. 

“I know where my student is,” he says sharply. A flicker goes through him, though—something like doubt, Bato thinks—and he wonders what caused it. “We were training. With Prince Sokka,” he adds quickly, like he thinks he needs a defense and Sokka’s the only option for it. “He needs arm guards.” Bato blinks at him, and tries not to laugh. 

“The Water Tribe doesn’t have princes anymore,” he says, ruefully amused, and Zuko looks bemused. 

“They did in the North,” he says. “I mean—there was a princess, I mean. But she died.” 

“Did they?” Bato asks curiously, interested by the idea even as a flash of quiet regret passes through him at the mention of the death of a Tribe member, whether it was one he knew or not. Hakoda’s mother was the only member of the Northern Tribe he’d ever known, and she’d rarely spoken of it. “The last princess of the South was a waterbender. The Fire Nation took her in a raid before she was married, and her mother died without producing another heir of the blood. After that we changed.” 

“. . . oh,” Zuko says, and looks . . . awkward is not the right word. Bato could almost think the boy looked upset, if he weren’t Fire Nation. 

The boy _does_ look upset. 

“She’s dead. All the waterbenders we captured are,” Zuko says abruptly, his eyes locking with Bato’s, and surprise flickers through him at the _look_ in those eyes: not triumphant, not factual, but very close to . . . 

That was fifty years ago, but Zuko looks as if he feels responsible. 

“You said Jet needed arm guards?” Bato asks carefully, and Zuko’s mood flips faster than the tide. 

“No,” he says, defensive again and with clear tension in his jaw. “Pr—Sokka does. His are gone. I mean—he lost them. In the water.” Bato can very easily see Sokka losing something small, but losing a piece of his armor . . . that rings a little odd, to him. Or perhaps it’s that defensiveness in Zuko’s voice, or the fact Sokka didn’t come back for another pair himself. 

“I’ll see if I can find a pair,” he says, watching the boy carefully. Zuko just looks more uncomfortable, and more defensive. “Do you mind waiting here?” 

Zuko shakes his head, once, and Bato tries to decide what he thinks of the boy all the way back to his tent. 

.

.

.

“He wanted arm guards for Sokka?” Hakoda asks, expression puzzled and eyes flicking in the direction Zuko left camp in. Bato shrugs, and hands over the other’s freshly cleaned and sharpened club and knife with careful hands—that Hakoda trusts him to maintain his weapons when his mind is distracted with plans and the war is one of the most important responsibilities in his life. 

“He was acting odd about it, but not suspiciously,” he answers. “I figured it was best to just give them to him.” 

“I wonder what he actually wanted them for,” Hakoda says, frowning to himself and not even checking the condition of his weapons as he straps them back to his side. Bato feels a brief warmth, like every time, and smiles over at him. 

“Is it really a problem?” he asks. The rules of hospitality are clear, and Zuko could’ve asked for much more than a change of clothes and a piece of armor. “He’s a guest in our tribe.” 

“I suppose we could explain he only had to ask, but I’m not sure I want to give _any_ teenage boy that power, much less a royal one,” Hakoda says ruefully, and Bato chuckles under his breath. 

“Probably for the best,” he agrees, and then glances at Hakoda out of the corner of his eye. He has not seen Hakoda’s face so relieved in a long time, but there’s a different stress underneath it. “Are you still worried about Katara?” 

“I know Sokka said she’s doing well, but not seeing her . . .” Hakoda trails off, and shakes his head. “She’s doing her duty. I taught her that.” 

“You did,” Bato agrees with a nod. The stress is still in the back of Hakoda’s eyes, though, and Bato does not blame him. He carried Katara on his back and fed her as a child and taught her to walk and run and play as surely as Hakoda and Kya did—he is the second and he never fathered a child by Kya, but he sees no reason to care less about Hakoda’s because of that. “You can send a letter back with the boys,” he suggests, and Hakoda frowns faintly, but nods. 

“I should,” he agrees again, looking back in the direction Zuko left in. Bato sighs, amused, and turns his head back to face him. 

“Sokka is fine,” he says. “Zuko thought he was a prince before I corrected him, he wouldn’t have picked a fight. Jet probably assumed the same.” 

“Jet burned up an entire tent with _one_ fire blast,” Hakoda says, eyeing the ashy sand on the other side of camp. Sokka and Zuko cleaned up the wreckage last night and the wind blew a fair share of it away, but there’s still black on the ground where there shouldn’t be. “ _Accidentally_. I don’t like seeing the boy away from his teacher, especially not when my son _is_ with him.” 

“He’s your son,” Bato says, smirking faintly, and Hakoda gives him a disgruntled look. 

“And?” 

“And he’ll toss him in the bay if he sparks.” 

“. . . good point.” 

.

.

.

“Oh that _really hurts_ ,” Sokka manages, cringing as Zuko fastens the arm guards, and Zuko refuses to cringe himself. He salved and bandaged these burns, he saw exactly how bad they were, and he knows just how much anything even _dreaming_ of touching a burn hurts. 

He heard the sound Sokka made when Jet burned him. 

“We’ll wrap it in aloe-lavender tonight,” he murmurs, ignoring the flashes of remembered pain that keep flickering beneath his skin. It was so deep it _kept_ burning, he remembers, went deeper as the days passed, and Sokka’s burn is bad enough it might do the same. He’ll definitely scar, although the aloe-lavender will help with that, and maybe if Katara gets to him soon enough it won’t be bad. 

At least he beat the person who scarred him, Zuko reflects, the thought snapping through him bitterly. He tries to ignore it, but fastens the next strap a little too tight and makes Sokka hiss. 

“Sorry,” he mutters as he fixes it, not able to bring himself to look at the other. He doesn’t like Sokka, he’s learned. He didn’t like him before for getting in the way with his ridiculous plans and primitive weapons, but now he dislikes him for his complete lack of shame and his demanding way of taking over and . . . well, still his ridiculous plans, but less his primitive weapons. 

But definitely for Chief Hakoda, and the easy way Sokka is so obviously everything the man wants in a son. 

“Can you carry Jet back by yourself?” Sokka asks doubtfully, looking down at his wrists and then glancing over to Jet, laid out nice in the sand. “I mean, I could try, but . . .” Zuko just nods silently, knowing Sokka couldn’t lift a gecko-kitten right now. He can’t even imagine how the other managed to clean the blood off Jet’s face and lay him out more comfortably, although it’s good he did—Zuko should’ve himself before he’d left, but he’d been . . . he’d been distracted. 

He knew he was the worst possible sifu, he thinks. Uncle would never, ever have let someone that he did not want burned be burned. 

This was a mistake, but he knew that going in. 

.

.

.

It’s a very quiet click, when it clicks. No different from when he realized Lee’s name wasn’t Lee, no different from when he realized Lee was the one who’d found him under the lake. 

No different from when Katara’s wet fingers left his temples and he remembered everything, and everything _changed_. 

And all that implies. 

Jet wakes up lying in an unfamiliar bedroll, staring up at the roof of an unfamiliar tent in what of the afternoon light comes through the cracks, his head aching and everything in him feeling the absence of Zuko’s body heat and breathing, and he realizes that Mushi—Iroh—is not Zuko’s father. The way Iroh is . . . Zuko would never look so nakedly, frustratedly longing in Sokka and Hakoda’s presence if Iroh were his father. Iroh would be . . . Iroh would be a good father, Jet thinks. 

But Zuko does not have a good father. Iroh _fathers_ him, but not the same way Jet sees other fathers do it; there’s a distance there that he attributed to a not-there mother, to whatever made them lie about being uncle and nephew, to a lot of things. Not actually them just being uncle and nephew, though, with a bad father in the way. 

If Iroh is not Zuko’s father then someone else is. 

If Iroh is not Zuko’s father but Zuko is still a prince, Zuko’s father is Iroh’s brother. 

If Zuko’s father is Iroh’s brother then Zuko’s father is . . . 

Jet’s chest seizes, and his throat seizes, and he doesn’t breathe at all. One breath would be the spark that would kill him, he knows, one breath would be too much, one breath would destroy _everything_ —

The front of the tent opens, and Prince Zuko, son of Fire Lord Ozai, stares in at him.


	14. light and day is more than you’ll say

Zuko inhales as he slips into the tent and Jet copies him immediately, and nearly chokes on his own breath. 

“Jet,” Zuko says warily, stepping in closer, and Jet can’t even hate him. It’s too much. How can he even . . . he can’t even wrap his _head_ around this person, the truth of this person, how can he even hate him? 

It’s too much. 

“Go away,” he rasps, and buries himself in the furs. Zuko sinks down next to him, and Jet goes tense all the way up his spine and fists his hands in the furs. “Go _away_ ,” he hisses. “Not your people. Not one of _yours_.” 

“Yes you are,” Zuko says, voice slicing sharp through the air. Jet bares his teeth and feels them spark and he’s so, so _angry_. He wants to see something burn. 

Except Zuko is the Fire Lord’s son and that’s . . . of course he is. Everything else since Katara let go of him with those damn wet fingers has been so infinitely horrible, how could he have ever thought otherwise? Of course Zuko is the Fire Lord’s son. Of course he’s _the_ prince of the Fire Nation. Of course he’s—of course he’s—

“Breathe,” Zuko says lowly, suddenly right at his ear, and Jet snaps his eyes shut and hates how his lungs just _do_ it. Traitors, he thinks. 

_Traitor,_ a very, very young voice inside him echoes back. _That’s our PRINCE._

Zuko grips his arm, and tugs. Jet follows, because . . . because. His head still hurts and he stumbles when he tries to get up, but Zuko’s right there so he doesn’t fall. If that’s a good thing or a bad one, he has no idea, but at least he doesn’t hit his head again. 

He doesn’t remember very much. His face hurts; something hit him there. It whistled—Sokka’s boomerang. He . . . reacted badly. To something. He tries not to remember what, it was . . . he reacted badly. He hit Zuko. He hit the prince of the Nation.

They _douse_ people for that. 

Zuko pulls him out of the tent and the light is _bright_ , and Jet groans and covers his face with both hands, nearly reeling back towards the safe dimness back inside. Zuko grips him harder and pulls him away, though, and he groans again. 

“No no _no_ —”

“You need the sun,” Zuko says, short and rough-edged. Jet stumbles again, and Zuko drags him down to the water. He wants to vomit, or maybe hit Zuko again. He didn’t even challenge him. He attacked a prince of the blood with fire and didn’t even _challenge_ —

He attacked someone with fire. 

Jet’s knees give out, and he hits the sand. Zuko catches him, kind of, but mostly gets dragged down with him. Jet wants to scream; instead he hides his face in his hands. 

“I bent,” he chokes. “I wasn’t—I didn’t _mean_ to—” 

“It happens,” Zuko says, his voice still rough and his hands gripping Jet’s shirt, and Jet wants to curl into nothing and die but it just isn’t happening. Zuko tugs at his clothes, and before Jet knows it he’s stripped him down to his loincloth and he stares at the other and Zuko gives him an annoyed look and folds the clothes awkwardly, then slips out of his own clothes too and lies down in the sand. “On your back,” he says, brisk and neutral. It’s an order. 

Jet stares at him—no one gives him _orders_ —but lies back anyway. Zuko scowls over at him for a moment, like he doesn’t know what to do with being listened to, then closes his eyes and turns his face towards the sun. 

“Firebenders rise with the sun,” he says matter-of-factly, not looking back to him. Jet watches him talk, because that’s all he can manage right now. “Our power comes from it, and we’re strongest when it’s highest. It’s the advantage we have over waterbenders—the sun doesn’t have phases.” 

_We attacked the day of the new moon,_ Jet remembers a man’s voice starting a bedtime story with, and he digs his fingers into the sand and tries to focus on just Zuko. Just his voice. Forget the rest of it, forget _all_ the rest of it, the stories about dying people that he’d listened to like something to aspire to, he just needs something to hold _on_ to. 

“Earthbenders are constant,” Zuko continues, and Jet pretends this is just class and tries not to laugh at himself. The other day he thought he’d never even _seen_ a school, much less been to one. “Day and night doesn’t matter, and their bending isn’t affected by things like the Comet. Same with airbenders: their element is always there. You can take an earthbender off the earth or dehydrate a waterbender and you can try to freeze out a firebender, but as long as they’re alive, airbenders can’t be kept from their element. It’s not possible.” 

“I know all that,” Jet says, and wants to cry. 

“Benders need their element,” Zuko says. Jet’s eyes squeeze shut, and his teeth grit, and his head throbs like the force of impact all over again. 

“I _know_ ,” he hisses. 

“Then why are you ignoring it?” Zuko asks. Jet’s eyes snap back open, and he gives the other a blank look. Zuko is just watching him, and his face is . . . Zuko does not relax, Jet knew this from the first moment they met, but this is the closest to it he’s ever seen him. For a moment, he has no idea why and can’t imagine a reason. 

And then he notices the light in Zuko’s hair and on his skin and the sand is so warm and Zuko’s body next to his is so warm and every breath makes him warmer, sedate and calm and like he’s been cold all his life, like he’s always needed this. 

He feels the _sun_ , and almost understands. 

.

.

.

“He thought I was a _prince_?” Sokka asks delightedly, immediately puffing up, and Hakoda laughs and reaches over to scruff the boy’s hair. 

“I don’t think he knows much about Water Tribe customs,” he says, amused. “He was a mess trying to figure out how to ask for those arm guards, for one.” 

“Guy’s weird, I was just worried he was gonna try and order somebody to _give_ him some,” Sokka says breezily, still grinning with obvious pleasure. His hands are in his lap, and he’s talking with them less than he has been, Hakoda notices. He hopes that means the boy is finally settling down; he hates to make his own son _nervous_. 

Not to say he hasn’t felt a little bit of the same. It’s been so long, Sokka’s grown so much, and . . . it’s just been so long, and for so much of that time he thought he might never see either of his children again. And seeing them _different_ . . . part of Hakoda had wished that he’d get home and not have missed anything, that everything would’ve been frozen in time and only resumed when they returned, but he’d known that was impossible. Going home at all might be impossible at this point in the war, although the eclipse just might get them that. If they’re lucky. If things go right. 

If they’re _very_ lucky. 

“Bato said he was perfectly civil about it,” Hakoda tells him, grinning faintly. 

“Then he perfectly lied,” Sokka replies matter-of-factly. “Zuko wouldn’t know civil if it dumped him on his ass. _Literally_ , we’ve all _done_ it—well, not Toph, but the rest of us.” Hakoda laughs, and shakes his head. 

“He _did_ call you ‘Prince Sokka’ when he asked,” he reminds him, amused. 

“. . . so he’s a _little_ civil.” 

.

.

.

“Tell me one thing,” Jet says raspily much, much later in the afternoon. His voice is so quiet that he barely hears himself over the soft sound of the waves, but it’s all he can do to ask at all. He doesn’t want the answer, but he _has_ to have the answer. “I remember—before I got hit, there was something . . . there was something bright, before I got hit. Did I . . . when that happened, did I . . .” 

“No,” Zuko murmurs, reaching over to grip his arm with a sunhot hand and shaking his head against the sand. “You didn’t burn anyone.” Jet turns his head away fast, but knows it doesn’t hide the sob he chokes on. 

“Okay, then,” he mutters, staying hidden against himself. Zuko’s grip on his arm softens a little and for a second he almost freaks out, thinking the other’s going to—to he doesn’t know what, exactly. But Zuko’s hand just falls away, and he doesn’t do anything at all. 

Jet closes his eyes and feels the sun thrumming through him and pretends it’s all as okay as that makes him feel. 

.

.

.

They finally get inside Dad’s tent, and Sokka sighs in exhausted relief—he didn’t want to yank Dad and Bato aside or anything, didn’t want to do anything that might look weird, so he waited outside with them while they worked in the afternoon sun, and while he was waiting half kept an eye on Jet and Zuko as they sunned themselves like melting leopard-seals halfway down the beach. Normally he’d expect more excitement out of them, but four hours later and they’re _still_ out there, even though the sun’s starting to drop. 

Technically this is a good thing because any time Jet and Zuko spend sunning themselves is time they aren’t burning down tents or punching each other in the face, but it’s weird to see them actually hanging _out_. That’s kind of . . . unfairly normal, Sokka thinks. 

Also, they’re doing it with each _other_. What the hell. 

Then he realizes Dad and Bato are settled in on the floor with the maps and plans, and he’s out of excuses not to tell them. Crap. 

“So, uh, hypothetically if we had an accident at training you guys wouldn’t have a problem with that, right?” he asks, peering up at the absolutely _fascinating_ weave of the tent ceiling. Bato gives him a weird look; Dad grimaces. 

“Which of them burned what down and how long is it going to take us to replace it?” he asks resignedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sokka figures it’s a good sign that inanimate objects are where his brain goes first. 

“Jet. But it was _definitely_ an accident,” Sokka stresses, and then Bato’s eyes lock on the arm guards. 

“Sokka—” he starts warily, and Dad jerks back to his feet and just barely stops before grabbing his arm. Which Sokka really, really appreciates because man, that would have _hurt_. 

_“Sokka,”_ Dad bites off, visibly struggling, and for Sokka it feels weird and unfamiliar to have an adult be angry and worried like that at him again. Only Katara does that anymore, and she doesn’t do it the same way Dad does. “You’re injured and you didn’t tell anyone?” 

“I told Zuko!” Sokka protests quickly, holding his hands up. “Who is, you know, kind of _good_ with burns, I’m fine. Jet just had another freaky happy fun time thing, he didn’t do it on purpose. Also, uh, don’t mention he did it to him or he’ll probably have one again—I would’ve told you guys right away otherwise.” 

“‘Another’?” Bato asks carefully, and Sokka thinks maybe he should’ve held off on that info a little longer. 

“He’s hurt,” he says. “The Dai Li have this brainwashing thing—they messed up his head in Ba Sing Se and when Katara tried to fix it she accidentally knocked something _else_ loose and . . . he didn’t _know_ he was Fire Nation. Like . . . he forgot, I guess? And he’s spent his whole life since he forgot _fighting_ the Fire Nation. He _hates_ firebenders.” 

“But he is one,” Bato says slowly. 

“Yeahhhh. That’s kinda the problem,” Sokka says, wincing a little and making an awkward gesture with one hand—then wincing a _lot_ , and lowering his arms. It is _amazing_ how painful bending a burned wrist can be. “Ow. But yeah, seriously, Jet finds out he burned somebody he is going to flip the light fantastic and there are only so many times you can hit a guy in the head before you do permanent damage, you know?” 

“And that would be why he came back from training unconscious, and not from overusing his bending?” Dad asks, catching his elbow gently and starting to unfasten his arm guard. Sokka, personally, thought that one was a _brilliant_ lie, Dad doesn’t have to look so _disapproving_ about it. 

Besides, he already feels like shit over telling it as it is. 

“Yeah, that’s why,” he admits, embarrassed and looking away as Dad unwinds the bandages. It’s been a while since Dad was around to do anything like this and he feels . . . stupidly little-kid, right now. “Like I said, firebenders—they always forget Boomerang comes back. Zuko hit the sand and it nailed Jet right in the face.” 

“Doesn’t that mean _Zuko_ remembered, then?” Bato asks ruefully. Sokka blinks. 

_“Dammit.”_

.

.

.

They bring the Fire princess to his cell in the dead of night, and Long Feng smirks at the sight of her. She is a child, small and thin in her armor and wholly unsuited to the fine green she wears, too pale and yellow to complement it. She lies to him, badly, and he chuckles. 

“We knew you were coming, Princess,” he tells her. “We caught your boy _weeks_ ago.” 

The girl pauses, her eyes flickering—weakness, Long Feng decides immediately—and then turns her head away haughtily. 

“I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about,” she says petulantly. 

“Oh, I think you do, Princess,” Long Feng says, smiling at her in quietly malicious satisfaction. He cannot believe the Fire Lord was fool enough to send a spoiled little thing like this out to fight his war, but it’s lucky for him. This reckless child will be the instrument of his return to power, and the preservation of the _proper_ cultural history of Ba Sing Se. “An angry young man with a pair of matched swords, trying to disrupt our perfect order, making wild accusations and engaging in fear-mongering among the populace . . . sound familiar yet?” 

“Matched swords,” the princess says in an odd little voice, her eyes sparking. 

“Ah, _now_ you know him,” Long Feng observes, smile widening, and then: “What would you do if I told you he was dead?” 

The princess’s head tilts, very slightly, and her eyes narrow. Then she smiles. 

“I’m sure I have no idea,” she says. 

_Liar,_ Long Feng decides, although it’s barely a decision. Everything about the girl screams it. 

“And if he were _not_ dead?” he asks. The princess’s smile does not change in the slightest. 

“I’m sure I have no idea,” she says.


	15. you were a friend of mine

Smellerbee has a soft, sawing sob that sounds like a pantherlope’s cry, and Longshot holds her tight in the nighttime dark and lets her ruin her voice on it. Tomorrow Toph is going to go see her mother and they’re supposed to go to the palace with Katara, but the palace is just the place Sokka sent them because he didn’t know them well enough to come up with something better. He doesn’t know how to use them right. 

He’s not Jet. 

Smellerbee has burn scars on her palms from one of the times she saved Jet’s life and, lying in the dark and listening to her cry, Longshot thinks about that time. Their ambush of an under-construction watchtower had gone bad, and one of the support beams had gone down in flames and taken Jet down with it. Tiny little Smellerbee had lifted it off him bare-handed, and the Duke had just barely managed to drag Jet out—he’d only been half conscious and had barely been able to move himself. 

Smellerbee and the Duke had both gotten burned, but Jet hadn’t. 

Longshot hadn’t thought about it, then. It was something simple, then: Smellerbee and the Duke had both gotten burned, and Jet hadn’t. All it had meant was that they’d needed to pick less aloe-lavender. 

That was all. 

Smellerbee’s breath catches, gagging on a harder sob, and Longshot flashes to the memory of Jet’s tearstained face and sparking mouth and something in him . . . there is a _revulsion_ there, something that recoils and reaches for something sharp. What Sokka said about Jet’s mother, and then what _Jet_ said about his mother . . . 

It’s not Jet’s fault. It wasn’t his mother’s fault, either. Longshot’s known dozens of people with Fire in their blood—you can’t not know people with _Fire_ in their blood, not after a war this long. It’s something people hide, something no one talks about, no one wants to admit. It’s a poison running through the world, a century of wrongs that will never, ever be righted. 

Longshot’s known dozens of people with Fire in their blood. 

He’s never known any of them to turn out benders, though. And it’s one thing to have the blood, but to have the _fire_ . . . 

_(he knows Jet. he knows being small and so scared his voice had run away, so scared he couldn’t even scream and needed to so BAD but what if the bad men had heard, he’d wanted saved he’d been so afraid but the bad men might have been the only ones to hear._

_he knows Jet’s dirty hands digging him out of broken wood and ashes and Jet’s lying smile telling him it was alright.)_

Smellerbee buries herself against him as if he were broken wood and ashes and the only thing between her and bad bad men and Longshot holds her tight and knows he is not dirty hands or a lying smile. He is not the leader she needs and she is not the leader he needs and Sokka doesn’t know them and the Avatar probably doesn’t _want_ them and Jet . . . and Jet . . . 

There’s only one thing they can do for Jet. Longshot saw his face, his cracking smile and the look in his eyes—the one he could never describe, the one that will haunt him until he dies—and he knows there is only one thing to be done. 

Jet has the fire in him, and it’s hurting him. Changing him. It will _do_ things to him and then he won’t be Jet anymore, he’ll be that burned-out and bad thing, that husk of something human that destroys lives and everything else it can grab. That thing that exists to _burn_ , and only lives by destroying. 

They can wait. They can survive it here a little longer. It’s horrible here, it’s the worst place they’ve ever been aside from the ashes, but they can wait. Jet will come back to them. He might even still be Jet when he does, for a little while longer. He’d be too scared to die alone, it’s Jet, he _can’t_ be alone. 

He’ll come back to them and then they can all do what they need to do. 

Longshot closes his eyes in the dark, and keeps waiting. 

.

.

.

When the sun set Jet fell asleep on the beach and Zuko stayed with him, breathing them both warm enough to stand the cooling sand even without bothering to get redressed. Jet’s still matching his breath even in his sleep, and it’s . . . terrifying, actually. 

Zuko was supposed to be prince and heir to his people, but he’s never _had_ to be before. At thirteen there were no real duties, no more responsibility than studying hard and preparing to _have_ responsibility later. But he’d learned the wrong lessons, shown fear and doubt, and hadn’t protected anyone. 

Those soldiers he spoke out for to begin with . . . 

He was weak. He was a coward. He backed out on an Agni Kai, forget the rest of it, and what happened after that is all . . . that’s all his own fault. 

What’s happening right now, with Jet breathing soft warmth beside him . . . this is just trying not to be at fault. To do what is right by his people, even if only once—to not let them fall, to not let the storms tear them apart, to keep them alive and _burning_. If that was the best he could do for them, then he’d make it be enough. 

The best he can do for Jet. 

“How is that at _all_ comfortable?” Sokka asks dubiously as he crosses the sand, his scowl just barely visible in the suddenly bright moonlight. Zuko finds it disturbing, mostly because a moment ago the moon was behind a bank of clouds and now the sky is alarmingly clear. Sokka doesn’t seem to notice the change. 

“I thought it was better than risking burning another tent,” Zuko says, eyes flicking to the other’s arm guards with a question. 

“They’re cool, Bato changed them,” Sokka says, avoiding the word “bandage”. Probably wisely, Zuko decides. “No seriously, jerkbenders don’t get _cold_?” 

“We don’t have to,” Zuko replies, shaking his head slightly. Keeping the breath of fire going all night will be exhausting if they actually do it, but Jet isn’t using his bending for anything else anyway—and as long as the other’s bending _something_ , Zuko doesn’t care about burning himself out. 

“Figures,” Sokka mutters, and plops down in the sand beside them. Zuko gives him a blank look, and the other shrugs off the sling across his back and dumps it across his lap. Zuko would be irritated, but he suspects even lifting it that briefly hurt like hell, so instead he just opens it and out tumbles a few thick slabs of jerky, a fat bundle of dried sea-prunes mixed in with something crunchy and oatlike, and a tatter-edged blanket. “No offense, I figured we should give you one of the ones that was already on its last legs.” 

“No, that was a good idea,” Zuko says, touching the fabric. It’s much rougher than he’s used to; even rougher than Earth Kingdom peasants’ weaves. Then he realizes he just said one of the Avatar’s companions had a good idea, and that just feels _strange_. He gives Sokka an odd look, only to find the other already giving him one himself. 

“That _almost_ sounded like you were being polite,” he says; Zuko scowls at him. He’s polite when it’s _appropriate_ , not when . . . okay, no, he’s never polite. But that’s only because it’s never _appropriate_ anymore, and anyway it’s easier to be rude than to use the wrong manners when he’s trying to pass for Earth. Good manners come in a thousand different very specific shapes and forms, but everyone’s rude the same way. 

“Whatever,” he says irritably, tearing a piece off one of the strips of jerky and popping it into his mouth. It’s salty. It’s kind of _painfully_ salty, in fact, and he doesn’t bother hiding the grimace of discomfort. Earth Kingdom food is strange and bland, but Water Tribe food is just _nauseating_. “I don’t understand how you people even eat this.” 

“Please, last time I was in a Fire Nation colony someone tried to feed me an egg with _sugar_ in it,” Sokka snorts, stealing a piece of jerky for himself and devouring it with all apparent enjoyment. Zuko blanches in distaste at the sight, but tears another bite off his own share—it wasn’t that long ago that he was so hungry that he forgot what _not_ being hungry was like, and if he can at least choke some of it down that’s all he needs. 

“That’s actually _good_ ,” he grumbles anyway, tearing the jerky into smaller pieces and swallowing them whole one at a time. 

“Eggs and sugar. ‘Good’. Riiight,” Sokka says, rolling his eyes, but then switches gears fast as anything and leans over, smirking at him. “So I hear you’ve been calling me ‘Prince Sokka’?” 

“It was a totally reasonable mistake,” Zuko retorts, eyeing the other sourly. He hates that grin. Anyway, in any civilized court they _would_ classify Sokka as a prince. Even with the boomerang and the weird sense of humor. 

“Oh, I know, I’m a classy guy like that, I don’t blame you for seeing that inner regal _shine_ and jumping to conclusions,” Sokka assures him breezily, sparing a moment to preen. Zuko gives him a dubious look, vaguely annoyed for some reason he can’t quite pin down. Maybe because he knows he’s not the kind of prince he should be, or what most people would expect or want in one. Maybe because he can’t stand being wrong, even over something no one else cares about. 

Maybe because Sokka is just really, really annoying. 

“What I saw was the structure of the _Northern_ Tribe,” he says sourly, popping another piece of jerky into his mouth and unconsciously shifting his eyes to check on Jet, stretched out still and quiet in the sand. He’s surprised the other can sleep this deeply, but he hasn’t shown any signs of waking up. Maybe the sun did him some good, or maybe it’s all just been too much and he won’t be getting up until dawn. “If their chief’s kids were princes and princesses, why wouldn’t yours be?” 

“Hah, that’s like asking why we don’t all wear leafy loincloths and live in a swamp,” Sokka scoffs, although he sounds suddenly subdued and the moonlight . . . Zuko _swears_ it brightens. 

“There are more than two Water Tribes?” he asks, but mostly it’s the bizarrely bright moonlight that has his attention and a second later, Sokka’s eyes shift to the moon itself the same way Zuko knows his shifted to Jet a moment ago. He’s uncomfortable, suddenly, and remembering the bits and pieces Uncle had explained of the North Pole—the Northern Princess died in Sokka’s arms. Having someone’s life snatched away when you’re right there, when you’re right there and you can’t _save_ them . . .

And he hadn’t even _tolerated_ Zhao. How much worse is that when it’s an ally dying? 

“Yeah, there’s—” Sokka starts, then stops mid-sentence and frowns accusingly at him. Zuko frowns back at him, confused for a moment, and then Sokka looks disturbed. That confuses him too, right up until he realizes that what’s disturbing the other is the fact he was _confused_ by a member of an enemy nation stopping before he gave away potentially sensitive information. 

Hell. 

“Jet looks cold,” Sokka says abruptly, shoving the blanket at him, and Zuko grabs it and grips it tight and nods agreement, and tries to keep the world from reordering itself. He thinks about that princess dying in Sokka’s arms, a girl whose face he hadn’t even bothered to register, her entire existence in his mind just a vague impression of long purple robes and ash-pale hair and eyes bluer than lightning. He thinks about the ocean dragging Zhao down and Katara’s mother’s necklace and the . . . and the _look_ she’d had in the back of her eyes, when he’d dangled it in front of her as bait. He’d been vaguely aware that Water Tribe jewelry usually meant something, part of a rite of passage or a lover’s gift or an inheritance, but he hadn’t considered anything past that. 

He thinks about the knife Uncle gave him and how his mother left him nothing, and the world tries to reorder itself again. 

“Get out of here,” he snaps at Sokka. “You’re going to wake him up.” 

.

.

.

Jet wakes up at the first touch of dawn and something in him rises—he _knows_ it’s dawn before he even opens his eyes, and when he does the beach is still and silent and the Water Tribe’s tents are quiet. 

There is a thick blue blanket over him, and a presence at his back. He turns, bracing a hand in warm sand—it should be cold, after the night, but it feels like afternoon sun—and sees the line of Zuko’s spine and the back of his head, his broad shoulders and awkward-lengthed hair. A prince of the blood should not have hair that short, not-Jet thinks absently, and the cold morning air blows in off the water and he exhales steam against the chill. 

Zuko stirs, and the tension in his shoulders sharpens, and when he turns Jet for just a second sees his face instead of the scar. 

He doesn’t like that second. 

“Why the hell did you even _come_?” he snarls, soft as the breath they’re sharing, and Zuko narrows already sleep-heavy eyes at him. 

“You would’ve burned someone, and they would’ve killed you for it,” he murmurs, voice thick with disuse and that faint lisp and Jet’s so angry to know him, he wishes they’d never _met_. Katara is good, Katara is a good person so this can’t be her fault so this has to be _Lee’s_ —

Except there’s no such person as Lee. 

Except Zuko _is_ Lee. 

“They _should_ have,” Jet hisses, fingers digging into the sand, and Zuko’s eyes don’t look sleepy anymore. 

“No one should _ever_ ,” he hisses back, and maybe he doesn’t spark but his eyes look like they _could_ and . . . and . . . “Not for something you couldn’t help.” 

Jet wants to laugh, that crack-voiced sob of one that seems to be all he has now, or maybe punch Zuko in that unfair scar or maybe douse— _drown_ himself. He already knows Zuko wouldn’t let him drown, though, he’s too fucking stupid to let him, he should _know_ to let him. He’d let Jet punch him and he’d even punch back, but getting woken up by a fight will just make the Water Tribe like them even less. 

He hates that he is something they instinctively despise. He’s never—he can’t—he doesn’t know how to be _hated_ , not for a good reason, not like this. Hated by the Fire Nation, he earned that, he _loved_ earning that, it was vicious and savage and so ugly and so _good_. The right thing. It’s right, to be hated by them. They’re scum, they’re not human, they’re something less and something unimportant and they’re not—they’re _not_ —

He hates this so much. 

“It’s sick,” he says, gritting his teeth against the sharp and sudden rise of tears, except of course it doesn’t stop them, he can’t control anything anymore. He doesn’t _have_ anything anymore; he never did, it was all a lie, everything he thought and fought for was a _lie_ , he doesn’t have a thing. “They should kill me, I wanted them to, I can’t do this, I’m not—I’m not like you, I _know_ better.” 

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” Zuko snaps lowly. His eyes are so gold, Jet doesn’t even know what to think; how did he ever ever _ever_ think those eyes were not gold? 

“What did I even think you _were_?” he marvels disbelievingly, covering his face with his hands, staring at the other through his fingers, feeling cracked, and it all wants to pour out and he just . . . it shouldn’t be like this, _other_ people crack, he’s not the one who cracks. “You just want needed. Why aren’t you—you’re the Fire Lord’s son. Why are you even _here_?” 

Zuko stiffens, and Jet doesn’t know if he’s ever watched any human being this closely in his life; the way the other’s jaw clenches and the twitch in his temple and the slight wideness of his eyes and he’s breathing just a little harder and everything in him is a sign of stress and alarm and anger. Jet just wishes he would spark. 

It would be so much easier if he would spark. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Zuko says. 

“But you need the Avatar if you want to go back,” Jet says, slowly. Zuko’s teeth bare. “And you do want to go back.” 

“Of _course_ I do,” Zuko hisses, eyes narrowing again. _Of course,_ Jet thinks, staring blankly at the other. The Fire Nation is home to Zuko, the Fire Lord is his father, he wants his father back, he wants his father to be . . . to not be whatever his father is. 

He would probably do anything for his father to not be whatever his father is. 

But Jet knows a lot of people who would do anything for the Fire Lord to not be what he is. 

“He doesn’t even want you,” Jet says. No one like Lee ever belonged to a father who _wanted_ him. Like Zuko. Like . . . whoever this person is, between the lie and what Jet thought was the truth. 

This person who finally, _finally_ sparks. 

“You don’t know _anything_!” Zuko thunders, jerking upright, flame bursting off his clenched fists and spilling off his tongue, the ghost of raging forest fires that killed everything but the oldest trees. Jet feels dull and ragged and drained and somehow so, so clear about it all, and the fire is so bright in the bare early light.

He doesn’t have to know anything to know everything. 

Jet exhales, and sweeps away the flames between them. 

.

.

.

Any distraction is good, Katara thinks as they take the battle plans to the palace, and she likes Suki: Suki’s practical, and she doesn’t hold grudges as hard as most people do. Admittedly Suki’s also from an island that’s been neutral for a hundred years and only suffered one Fire Nation raid in all that time, but still she’s a calming influence and Smellerbee could use some of that. Longshot too, maybe, although with Longshot it’s hard to tell. 

She might not even mind about Jet, Katara thinks, although she doubts she’ll be happy to see Zuko. _She_ definitely wasn’t, even when the first glimpse of him she caught was him coming down like a slash of full midnight on a Dai Li agent’s head. She’d assumed he’d had to be Jet, for just a second. The fighting style had looked close enough, even without the swords. Then he’d broken stone fists with smoking hands and she’d stopped assuming that. 

Apparently breaking solid rock with fire is not enough to disqualify someone from being Jet, but at the time she hadn’t known that and she’d reached for her waterskin. Then Jet and Iroh had charged in on a roaring Appa and Zuko had jumped into the saddle and they’d _all_ jumped into the saddle and should’ve thrown him into the lake, probably, but all the shards of stone in the air were a bigger problem at first and then _Jet_ was the bigger problem and . . . 

Katara could use some calming influence herself right about now.

But she wants things to be better for Jet when he comes back. She wants him to have something to come back _to_ , so after the war meeting she invited Longshot and Smellerbee to deliver the plans with her and meet the Kyoshi Warriors. She doesn’t know the Freedom Fighters very well, but they’re here to help and they deserve to be alright. And Jet . . . if he’s really trying, Jet deserves to be alright too. She thinks. She’s almost sure. 

Or maybe it’s just that she feels like she hurt _him_ this time, and has to do something to fix it. 

It all seems like the closest thing to a good idea they’re going to be able to get, right up until they walk into the throne room and she sees who’s sitting on the throne.


	16. no matter how far we come, our parents are always in us

Iroh leaves the Lower Ring inn he spent the night in and finds himself being followed, unsurprisingly. He promised Zuko he would lie low, but there is only so low a man can go, and when the secret police are creeping up out of the streets . . . 

Well, it’s probably going to be an eventful day. 

But it’s best not to make trouble for the Avatar’s group by revealing their association with the Dragon of the West, so Iroh goes about his morning the practical way, and that is by being the most boring old man possible. They saw Zuko firebend and they saw him on the Avatar’s bison’s back, but if they’d recognized either of them they would already be dead. This means it is still possible to be dull old Mushi, and Iroh attacks the issue with a vengeance. He buys himself a mediocre breakfast at a stall, chatting up the woman running it, and then goes for a walk. He repeatedly stops other passerby and shares long, convoluted stories with no particular point to them, complains about the weather and the city guard and how back on the plains it was _so_ much better than in the city, and oh that ungrateful nephew of his ran off with his friends, kids these days, and can you _believe_ the price of hogchicken eggs in this city, honestly, what’s the world coming to. 

Once he’s sure any sane spy would be bored to the point of a near-comatose state, he heads down to the Agrarian zone and spends the afternoon cheerfully feeding kitten-ducks at the zoo. 

Very, very slowly. 

.

.

.

The anger had drained out of Zuko when Jet had swept aside his fire and for a second he had looked very young and . . . _soft_ , Jet does not want to say, except it’s the closest word. Like . . . what, exactly? Like he was glad to see him bend, glad to see _anyone_ bend. Like he just liked it. 

Then he’d remembered the anger and grabbed his borrowed blue clothes and stormed off, and Jet hadn’t followed like every other time. He hadn’t needed to—he’d remembered how to breathe alone. 

So he’d watched Zuko storm off down the beach and disappear somewhere in the early light and the part of him that wasn’t Jet was angry with himself, but the part of him that _was_ Jet was angry with everything else, and Jet had been around longer. 

The warriors are all up now and someone’s cooking something—or possibly tarring something, it’s hard to judge with Water Tribe food—and most everyone looks busy or like they have someplace to be. Jet stays in the sand, feeling dull and raw at the same time; there is no Zuko to keep him from sparking, but putting out a fire isn’t that hard anyway, all it takes is a breath and a gesture and it’s . . . it’s not hard. 

Jet blinks, slowly, and then gets up and gets dressed and grabs the blanket and folds it, awkwardly, and heads back towards camp. 

.

.

.

The other firebender—Jet, Hakoda corrects himself, vaguely recalling some long-ago Earth woman telling him that jet was something like coal, that it came from fossilized wood—is wandering through camp with a blanket in his arms and a vaguely lost expression on his face, his teacher—Zuko—nowhere in sight. Bato’s helping pull in the nets down the beach, which means Hakoda’s extremely short list of people he’d send to check on the boy is already exhausted. Still, a teenage boy looking lost in a still-unfamiliar camp isn’t exactly cause for worry. 

Even if the teenage boy is a barely controlled firebender with a hair-trigger and a violent streak, enough bruises and scars to shame a full-grown man, and the raw power to _accidentally_ incinerate canvas they’d deliberately treated to be burn-resistant and burn through leather armor in one off-hand shot. 

Dammit. 

Hakoda pushes himself up and heads after the boy, struggling a moment with the thought that this boy is not just a boy, this boy is a _firebender_ and a firebender that burned his _son_ , that . . . Jet burned his _son_. Badly enough that it will scar, that Sokka will carry the mark of this war all his life, that he will never be free of it no matter how it ends, that—

_That wasn’t from the war,_ Bato had said very quietly last night after Sokka had gone, when Hakoda had been shaking, been about to fall apart. Bato with his burned and limited arm and shoulder, his widespread scars, his mismatched hands; Bato who almost hadn’t survived to defend the boy who’d burned _their_ boy. Bato who was all Hakoda’d had for a long, long time, trying to hold onto the memory of their faraway children, their faraway village, their world that was changing without them, that they might never see again, that they might not even _save_. 

Hakoda breathes out, and matches stride with Jet. 

“Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks. 

.

.

.

“Stop _sulking_ ,” Sokka says in exasperation, and Zuko eyes him balefully from across the cookfire. But he’s been brooding a good ten minutes over the same damn piece of smoked cod-kipper so Sokka really doesn’t care. He is pretty sure he could power a fully-deployed army off the sheer resilience of Zuko’s bad moods. “Seriously, if you hate the food that much there is a perfectly good ocean _right there_ , go catch your own. Hell, if you’re not in the mood for fish go up the cliff and there’s a perfectly good forest!” 

“It’s not the _food_ , you idiot,” Zuko bites off, baring his teeth at him. Dumbass, Sokka decides, and grabs the other’s barely touched cod-kipper and sucks the fillet down. He hates to waste food, and it’s incredibly obvious that Zuko isn’t getting any further into his breakfast. Frankly just watching him eat the _first_ fillet was painful enough. 

“Hey!” Zuko snaps, and Sokka just eyes him dubiously. Aloe-lavender or not, he is still way too sore for this shit. 

“Oh, don’t _even_ act like you were going to manage to choke that down, I saw the face you were making,” he snorts. Zuko scowls. 

“Just because it tastes bad doesn’t mean I’m not going to eat it,” he says irritably, mouth twisting in displeasure. 

“Man, every time I see you treat another delicious piece of fish like I haven’t had in _months_ like you’d rather be swallowing rocks I literally _cringe_ ,” Sokka retorts in exasperation, scowling back at him. “We’re not crappy enough hosts that you have to eat something you hate for every freakin’ meal, okay? All you gotta do is ask and somebody’ll shove aside a couple fish from the morning haul and let you cook it how you like for lunch. Also dinner. Also pretty much anything, seriously, do you think we’re _punishing_ you or something?” 

“What? No!” Zuko snaps, his glower darkening. “It’s _rude_ to refuse the host’s food—”

“Yeahhh, that doesn’t so much mean you can’t mention ‘I am sorry but my lousy Fire Nation palette can’t handle the awesome of Water Tribe cuisine’ sometime between meals,” Sokka cuts in dryly, because again, way too sore for this shit. Not even sore, he _yearns_ for sore; this hurts way worse than that. 

Frickin’ freaky frickin’ weird frickin’ magic. At least Katara’s bending only ever got his socks wet. 

“Whatever,” Zuko mutters sourly. Sokka figures this is jerkbender for “I don’t have a comeback” and gets to his feet. He’d grab the other by the arm or something, but that’s not really going to work right now so instead he just kicks him. _“Hey!”_

“Get movin’, jerkbender, I can’t drag you along myself,” Sokka demands, giving him another kick, and Zuko gives him a nasty look but rolls to his feet and follows him to the water. 

“What?” he asks irritably. 

“Stop being a dick,” Sokka retorts, and shoves him over. Zuko lands on his ass in the water, looking shocked, and then stares up at him in disbelief. 

“What the _hell_ was that for?!” he yells—like what, it isn’t obvious?—and slaps an arm across the surface of the water. Sokka jerks back reflexively, thinking it’s a firebending move, but the only thing that hits him is an impressively large splash of water. 

“Crap!” he chokes, falling over himself—maybe more out of surprise he’s not crispy-fried right now than anything else, although he’s definitely not admitting that. Zuko gives him a dirty look, and the only solution is to splash him back. Then of course Zuko splashes him again, the guy _clearly_ does not know when to give up, and then Sokka kicks his feet out from under him and Zuko dunks him under the water and Sokka shoves him over and a sudden wave sends them both spilling back onto the beach in a head-over-heels tangle and ow ow _ow_ this was such a bad idea aggggh thank _god_ the arm guards are mostly waterproof. 

Bato quirks an eyebrow down at them, hefting a net spilling over with fish over his shoulder. Sokka considers being embarrassed, but really, this is not the worst thing Bato’s caught him doing. 

“If you’ve got enough energy for roughhousing this early in the morning, maybe you have time to clean fish?” Bato suggests mildly. 

“They _live_ in water, what do they need cleaned for?” Zuko asks in bemusement, wrinkling his nose up at him, and Sokka drops his head against the other’s shoulder and bursts into laughter. Spirits save them _all_ from spoiled-ass princes. 

“We got it, Bato,” he says ruefully, pushing himself up with his legs more than his arms. “I’ll show him how.” 

“Thattaboy,” Bato says, amused, and drops the fish next to them. “I’ll get the brine and the fire pit set up.” 

“Wait, we’re washing _fish_?” Zuko asks, still more bemused, and Sokka just pats him on the shoulder—carefully, for the sake of his arm. 

“Yeahhh, this might take some explaining,” he says with a smirk. “But you’re not squeamish, right?” 

.

.

.

“This is _disgusting_ ,” Zuko says matter-of-factly, but his knife is quick and getting quicker, and Bato is impressed by the improvement in the boy’s work. His first fish were practically mutilated, but now he’s nearly competent. 

“Take your time,” he says, transferring the already-brined fillets into the rinsewater and then laying them out on the racks to dry. It’s very clear which are Zuko’s, especially in this earlier batch, and clear which are Sokka’s too—his grip is weak, and he’s having trouble controlling the knife. He’s still much better than Bato remembers him being, though, and he thinks of two long years where Sokka was the closest thing to a man the tribe had, and can’t help thinking how much he and Katara grew in that time; how much they learned and would’ve _had_ to learn. 

He’s proud, but he regrets it, too. 

Zuko’s knife slips and gouges a piece out of the fish, and he curses. Sokka snickers, and gets a dirty look for it. 

“Better the fish than your hand,” Bato says in amusement, still laying out fillets on the racks, and Zuko just scowls deeper and draws the knife down the meat with almost criminal care. He hasn’t cut himself once, Bato notes, a little surprised. But then, just because Zuko doesn’t know how to clean a fish doesn’t mean he can’t handle a knife—the Fire Nation doesn’t have the same kind of soft, soft-handed nobles as so much of the Earth Kingdom seems to. 

He strikes his spark rocks over the fresh-dug fire pit, but the spark doesn’t catch. Another strike, and it still doesn’t—

Zuko spits just past his fingers, a tiny seed of a spark that blossoms effortlessly into a flower of flame in the coals and driftwood, and Bato stares at it curiously. He hears one or two of the other men hiss in alarm, but can’t feel the same, and just watches the flame spread in a way very like a natural fire, and nothing like the way he’s used to a natural fire spreading. 

“Not too hot,” he says absently, and Zuko sucks in a slow breath and the fire reins itself in. Bato glances back over his shoulder, and finds the boy still fully occupied with cleaning fish. That didn’t even require any real attention, he thinks. 

“Could Jet do that?” he asks, thinking of what Hakoda told him about the way the other was acting this morning, the distant and lost and near-despairing look of him; Zuko blinks, and lifts his head. 

“Huh,” he says, sounding a little surprised as he looks at the fire pit. “That’s a good idea.” 

.

.

.

By the afternoon, Jet still doesn’t feel like himself. He vaguely recalls Chief Hakoda sitting him down with some of the men and them giving him a breakfast that tasted like ash in his mouth, and vaguely recalls wandering around the beach with no real destination in mind except “not where Zuko and Sokka are”. It wasn’t hard; they’ve been planted in the same place all morning with a handful of the men, a pile of fish, and a barrel of brine, salt dried in their clothes and hair and squabbling with each other pretty much constantly as they work. Jet would be pissed if someone was doing such a crap job of cleaning fish as Zuko is, too _(Jet would be pissed if someone was doing as little of the work as Sokka is, too)_. 

The sun feels good. Nothing else really does. Even the sun feeling good is . . . is it normal, for the sun to feel this good? Is it normal to naturally subjugate other people’s will, other people’s wants? To take over, to conquer, to _have_ to be the one in charge, to hurt innocent people to get at the enemy? 

That’s not normal. 

He can’t believe that’s normal. 

Jet stares at the water for a long, long time, thinking about swimming out and not coming back, thinking about how far he’d have to get before he could just sink, let it take him, let himself smother. He thinks about it and thinks about it and hates himself for not doing it, he should do it, he can hurt _other_ people, he can hurt _innocent_ people, why can’t he do this? He needs to _do this_. He . . . he bent fire, today. He took it away from Zuko and he put it out and he _conquered_ it, and it felt good. 

It was easy. It was easy and he could do it any time he wanted, it isn’t even hard, it felt _right_ , it—

“Jet,” Bato says, leaning into his field of vision, and Jet jerks in alarm and holds his breath against the sparks. “Come give me a hand?” 

With what, Jet wonders, what could something like him _ever_ possibly help with? But Bato just looks expectant and so he ends up following him anyway. It’s probably more fish, or maybe fixing a tent, or—

“I need someone to watch the fire,” Bato says, stopping in front of a smoldering fire pit, a smoker, and a rack full of those fish Sokka and Zuko were cutting up all morning. Jet’s throat seizes up. “Just keep it low so the fish don’t burn.” 

“I—” he tries to protests, but Bato is already filling the smoker with fish as if it’s nothing, as if he didn’t just ask something _horrible_ , and Jet’s legs weaken and he ends up sitting in front of the fire beside the driftwood meant to feed it, staring at the flames. This man just asked him to firebend. This man whose whole life is _fighting_ firebenders . . . 

“If you want to let it burn down to the coals for a while every now and then, that’ll help with the smoke,” Bato says. Jet nods, dully, and his hand creeps forward across the sand to almost touch the edge of the pit. He breathes, and the fire breathes with him. 

And it’s not even hard. 

Bato finishes filling the smoker with fish, and Jet soothes the fire down to guttering heat and smoke, low and steady. He feels it in his veins, his lungs, his every _inch_ , and something in him knows it feels him too. It’s the world. It’s everything the world could ever _be_. It’s the spark, the thing inside, the thing that burns and burns and burns against it all. 

Bato goes. Bato comes back. Bato goes again, and Jet wishes he’d stay. Chief Hakoda passes by, and some of the other warriors, and Zuko doesn’t, and Sokka comes by with a whole roasted fish on a stick, one that’s made different from any other Water Tribe food Jet’s had—the salt’s much milder, and there’s a sharp bite of pepper. He picks the flesh off the bones with his fingers and it’s moist and soft and _good_ , and he wonders why they don’t always eat like this, it’s so much . . . ah. 

“Zuko made this, didn’t he,” he asks, but isn’t really asking because Sokka left right after he dropped off the fish and he’s alone with the fire. He’s surprised Zuko can cook fish at all, considering what he did to those fillets. Maybe Sokka helped him figure it out. Even if Zuko made it, though, the fish tastes good. The sun is good too, and the soft smolder of the firepit, in and out through his lungs and veins; it comes in through the sun and leaves through the firepit and comes in through the firepit and leaves through the sun, or maybe it’s just all always there, and Jet’s eyes feel heavy and tension he’s had for too long to recognize as tension anymore drains out of him drop by drop, evaporates into meaningless nothing. 

Then he realizes what he’s doing and starts to cry. This—this isn’t like putting something out, this isn’t even like attacking Zuko, this is like—this is—this is yesterday afternoon, lying in the sun for hours and hours and _feeling_ it. Feeling quiet and calm and _right_ and—and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this right. Not since he started being Jet. 

Not since he stopped bending. 

He cries harder but tries not to, wiping the tears away fast, willing them gone. They sizzle on his fingers but don’t stop, and it hurts, and the fire flickers unsteadily and Jet _feels_ unsteady, inhuman and shaken and less than what he thought he was, less than what he wanted to be. Not enough at all. Not anything, except the _wrong_ thing. 

He wants his mother. He wants her . . . he wants her _personally_ , for the first time, not as an abstract concept he heard the other kids talk about, not as the ghost of the hands pushing him out of the house, the ghost of the voice telling him to run. He wants _Mom_ : her sharp/hard eyes and her long sleeves wrapped around him like a blanket and the pretty red she painted her lips and her longlong hair that smelled like flowers that didn’t grow in the colonies. Her sharp nails filed to a perfect point, her laugh, her proud smile when he did right, her pleased one when he brought her a present, her complete lack of doubt, her—her—

“Mom,” Jet mutters into his knees, wrapping his arms around them, curling up around the word. Around the mother he _remembers_ , not the mother he used to dream about. She was . . . she wasn’t all Fire, he remembers— _her_ mom was Earth. She wasn’t all Fire, and she wasn’t all bad. 

She was his _mom_ , and she’d died so he’d live. 

. . . she’d wanted him to live.


	17. I’ve seen you burn ‘em before

Sokka's arms are killing him. He's never lied so hard in his _life_ as he has trying to keep a grin on his face today, but Jet's freaking out enough. If the idiot finds out what he did and _does_ something about it—Sokka's not going to be the one explaining that to Katara. He _refuses_ to be the one explaining that to Katara. 

Oh spirits, though, it hurts. It hurts really, really bad. 

"This way," Zuko says under his breath, very quietly, as he touches the back of his shoulders. Sokka jumps a mile, and _seriously_ regrets the jar to his arms.

"What—" he starts. 

"Your father's second is keeping Jet busy," Zuko tells him, holding up that little jar of burn salve he had before and _spirits_ Sokka has never been so glad to see any jar ever, not even the ones Gran-Gran brines sea cucumbers in. 

"Well if you insist," he says quickly, and shoulders the other towards the nearest easily-hidden-behind tent. Because ow. Because ow ow _ow_ and the promise of aloe-lavender salve on his arms is enough to push him to the point of snapping if he doesn't get it _right now_. To the point he's fumbling with the buckles on his borrowed arm guards before he's even gotten around the side of the tent. It would work better if his hands didn't want jack shit to do with gripping anything hard enough to unbuckle it. 

"Here," Zuko says, and reaches over and starts unfastening them. With his eyes downcast and the blue clothes and the dim shadowed light behind the tent, Sokka could almost mistake him for tribe. You know. If he was totally stupid. 

It'd be nice if Zuko wasn't a jerkbending jerkbender, though. If he was decent and someone he could deal with, someone he could trust to . . . 

To go behind a tent in the shadows with him and take care of his wounds, Sokka thinks belatedly, and blinks at the other. Zuko sets the armguards aside carefully and unwinds the bandages carefully and salves the burns carefully and what the hell, really, this is _Zuko_. Zuko is the least careful guy he _knows_. 

What the hell. 

"Does it hurt?" Zuko asks awkwardly, not looking up from his work. 

"Like a mother," Sokka answers, his eyes sliding sideways. Zuko looks weird right now. Zuko looks _so_ weird right now. Like he kind of gives a damn or feels responsible or something. Sokka almost believes he does, from how he's been about the Jet thing in general. 

It's weird, how good Zuko's been about the Jet thing. How good he's being about _this_. It's pretty much the last thing Sokka would've expected a firebender to care about. Zuko's really good with burns, though—Sokka can barely _breathe_ without them hurting but Zuko's slathered aloe-lavender all up his arms and only left a dull ache behind, comparatively. 

It still really hurts. 

"I . . . it's my fault, I shouldn't be his sifu," Zuko says, looking down at the burn salve. "Uncle would've never let that happen." 

"Yeah, well, Dad would've never let him into _camp_ so really it's my fault," Sokka sighs, grimacing as the other starts bandaging his arms again. Ow. Ow. _Ow_. "I'm the one who wanted to come and bringing Jet was my idea too." 

"I was supposed to stop him," Zuko says. 

"You weren't even supposed to _come_ ," Sokka retorts. "Chill out. It's my own stupid fault, and if he'd burned me when you _weren't_ around there would've been a lot more trouble, okay?" 

"I guess," Zuko says, eyes flickering down again uncertainly. He's good with bandages, Sokka notes; if his arms were in any condition to flex, he'd actually be able to fight like this. 

"Bato's watching Jet?" he asks, slanting the other a slow look, and Zuko nods. "Okay then. Let's just hang out back here a while, alright? I kind of don't want to have to act okay for a bit, it's getting on my nerves." 

"I could get you something?" Zuko hazards, and Sokka snorts—partially because what would he even _get_ , partially because man, it's _Zuko_. Of all the people to ask him a question like that . . . 

"It's cool, I just want to sit a while. I'm sore, you know?" he says with an easy, painful shrug. "Sore" is the worst understatement _ever_ , of course, and Zuko just frowns at him. 

"'Sore'?" he repeats doubtfully, and Sokka looks at the other's scarred face and feels kind of embarrassed for even _trying_ that one. 

"Okay, not sore," he admits. "It really, really hurts. I want to throw myself in the _bay_ is how much it hurts, except the bay's full of salty salty agony and seriously, enough pain here as it is, and I really just want it to _stop_." 

“Yeah,” Zuko says, his voice a little distant. “Burns are like that.” 

.

.

.

“About—” Bato starts very quietly, later, when no one is close enough to hear, and Zuko very clearly knows what “about” is about. 

“It was my fault,” he says immediately. “I didn’t think he’d react like that, I should’ve been ready for it. It was stupid of me.” 

“You can’t predict everything another person is going to do,” Bato tells him. 

“I should’ve been ready for it,” Zuko says stiffly, raising his head. Bato wonders where that scar came from, and how much it hurt—just looking at it, he can tell the burn was deeper than the one that scarred him. And older, too. Two years, maybe three. Maybe more than that, and Zuko only barely looks old enough to have completed whatever manhood rites the Fire Nation requires. He must’ve just stepped into battle when . . . what? Friendly fire? But the mark is too deliberate for that, it’s closer to a brand than anything, and who would brand the _prince_? 

“Did he burn you?” Bato asks, and Zuko gives him a startled look, something between insulted and confused. It could be an insult to ask a firebender that, Bato supposes, but that’s not how he means it. 

“Wh—no,” Zuko says quickly, his shoulders tensing. “He kicked me in the head and bent at Sokka while I was down. That’s not—it’s an explanation, not an excuse. It’s my fault. He didn’t know what he was doing.” 

“He didn’t know he could burn someone?” Bato asks, tilting his head very slightly. 

“Yes. No.” Zuko scowls, and shakes his head. “It’s my fault.” 

“Is this an apology?” Bato asks, and Zuko looks startled again. 

“I . . . yes,” he says uneasily. “It was my fault your chief’s son was burned. I was . . . I failed as a teacher.” 

“Have you ever trained another person before?” Bato asks, and Zuko frowns and looks away. 

“He’s my responsibility,” he says, which isn’t a “yes”. Bato wants to know _why_ Zuko considers Jet his responsibility, exactly. He wants to believe there’s a noble purpose there, but with Fire Nation . . . all these soldiers were boys once, and this boy was raised by the _Fire Lord_. 

“Is Jet alright with that?” he asks. Zuko’s frown deepens. 

“Uncle would be better,” he says. “He’d be . . . I don’t think Jet would be _alright_ with anyone, he hates all of us, but if it was Uncle—that wouldn’t have happened with Uncle. Uncle could teach him so he’d actually _want_ to do it. Maybe, I mean. Uncle’s much better at it than I am, he—” And then he cuts himself off, and scowls, and Bato wonders just what kind of heir the Fire Lord was raising, anyway. 

“I see,” he says. “Why is he your responsibility, then?” 

“I bent his fire,” Zuko says, looking suddenly embarrassed. “That’s . . . he’s my responsibility.” 

“I see,” Bato murmurs again, just looking at the other for a moment. He remembers how passionate Katara always was about the snow and water, thinks of the way most of the earthbenders they’ve met walk around with bare feet just to keep contact with the ground, and tries to figure out how personal bending an element another bender is already bending would be. A firebender creates their element out of their own energy; it comes from a part of them. 

That seems . . . very personal. 

“Does he know he’s your responsibility?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Zuko says, and touches his arms like he’s expecting to find burns there. 

.

.

.

Toph is surrounded by metal and it’s trying not to talk to her. She’s not okay with this. It’s metal, yeah, but it _was_ earth. Earth is in it, part of it, it can’t _deny_ that—

Jet flashes into her head, that stupid idiot, and she loses focus. She remembers Smellerbee lashing out with a sharp edge of steel, more earth that wouldn’t talk to her, remembers Jet not even _pretending_ to dodge—his heartbeat not even changing, tension disappearing from his shoulders, he is so _stupid_. It’s bending. She doesn’t care that it’s fire, she doesn’t care he’s not who he thinks he was: when she was little she would’ve given _anything_ to have come from some other place that wanted her back, for someone to come and take her away. For someone like Iroh, who liked her like she was and didn’t care about what life-so-far wanted her to be. 

He’s hurt, yeah, and he’s different from what he was supposed to be, but he’s not by himself. People want to _help_. People think it’s okay he is how he is and don’t want him to change. 

Even if the people who love him most aren’t, and do. Even if the people who are supposed to love him _best_ . . . 

Toph’s fingers curl against the metal. Her teeth clench. She thinks of how unfair it is, being wanted for all the wrong reasons, being loved _conditionally_. Like you’re not real if you’re not right. Like you’re not _worth it_ if you’re not right and they might as well have not bothered at all. 

It’s not fair. 

They’re supposed to love you anyway. 

She presses her fingers against the metal and goes where she always goes when it’s too much, and it finally, finally admits she’s there. She thinks of her mother and her father and Smellerbee’s knife and Longshot’s stillness and being told no, no, _never_. Running away, being stolen, being the wrong thing, trying to be the _right_ one . . . 

She thinks of Smellerbee’s knife, and the barest hint of a tremble that she’d felt in it. 

Sometimes things that don’t want you can still love you, Toph thinks to herself, and tears through the cage. 

.

.

.

Jet looks like he’s been crying again, and as far as Sokka can tell he hasn’t said anything to anyone since Bato sat him down to tend the fire pit. He’s this close to taking the hit and going over to actually talk to the guy—or better yet, making _Zuko_ talk to the guy. He has no idea how they spent yesterday glued at the hip but refuse to even _look_ at each other today, it’s the most annoying freaking thing. 

Seriously, of all the people to tag along to Chameleon Bay, why did it have to be Jet and Zuko? If he’d waited another day it could’ve been _Suki_ hanging out on the beach with him in her underwear. 

Morons, he decides as he watches Jet stare into the fire pit, and then sighs to himself and gets up to head over, although he doesn’t make it two feet before suddenly someone’s shouting and Dad’s calling out orders, and oh. Well. So much for small talk. Sokka goes to find out what he’s needed for, and Dad cocks an eyebrow at him and smiles, very faintly. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asks. “I said all the men.” Something sweet and perfect rises up in Sokka with that and he grins, stupidly, and feels the best he thinks he’s ever felt in his life for just that one amazing second. Then reality reminds him it exists, and that he’s got other concerns. 

“Uh . . . and Jet and Zuko?” he asks warily, pointing back towards the fire pit, and that his father hesitates on. 

“I want to fight,” Jet says out of nowhere, sharp and hard and suddenly behind them with eyes that _scream_ “bad sign”, and Sokka nearly jumps a mile. _Frick_. Dad opens his mouth, maybe to say yes and maybe to say no and maybe to say _spirits, you should be BELLED,_ like Sokka is thinking, but instead his eyes flick skyward and he doesn’t say anything. Sokka looks, and it’s Appa and Aang. He frowns. How long does it _take_ to master the Avatar State? 

Then they land and he sees the look on Aang’s face and his stomach sinks. 

Oh no. 

.

.

.

“You saw _what_ in a vision?!” Jet demands, sparks spilling off his lips as he vaults up into Appa’s saddle, and Aang barely keeps himself from blowing him right back off. 

“Be _careful_ , you could burn Appa!” he shouts back at him anyway, angry and angry with himself for being angry, but all he can think about is Katara, is what might be happening to her, and he’s definitely _not_ thinking about what the guru said. He doesn’t have time and he can’t think right about it anyway and it’s just—he can’t lose Katara. He _can’t_ , and he can’t let her be hurt because he wasn’t there. 

Jet sparking on Appa’s back is not something that makes that feeling better. They just got Appa _back_. 

He can’t lose anyone else. He can’t. He lost _everyone_ , he lost the whole _world_ , he—

“I wouldn’t,” Jet says, looking almost . . . he looks _crushed_ , and Aang feels everything drain out of him, and then Sokka’s taking the reins and asking questions he doesn’t have answers for and a few of the warriors are looking up at them from the ground with concerned expressions and he really . . . he really doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Except he knows exactly what he’s doing here, there’s only one thing _to_ do here. 

“Katara’s in danger,” he says roughly. “I don’t know anything else.” 

“Then why aren’t we _moving_ yet?!” Jet demands angrily. He still looks upset and Aang wants to apologize but he’s embarrassed, suddenly. He’s the one who said it didn’t _matter_ but he still yelled at him for not even doing anything, really. And Katara . . . all he can _think_ about is Katara, he can’t lose anyone else. He’s done with losing people. He can’t do it again. 

“Are you coming or what?” Sokka asks, the reins still loose in his grip, and Aang blinks at him. What kind of question is—

“I’m coming,” Zuko says, and scrambles up Appa’s side. 

. . . oh. 

Right. 

.

.

.

Somewhere between the initial rush of panic and getting anywhere they can actually do anything, Jet starts feeling odd about leaving without saying goodbye to Bato. There’s no reason he should—no reason Bato would _care_ —but he does anyway. It’s not like Bato even did anything on purpose, but . . . 

The Water Tribe was hard to figure out. Jet doesn’t really understand adults, he isn’t going to pretend otherwise, and he keeps trying to get his fingers into their chinks but he’s only any good with them when it’s a one-off deal. Any of them that he’s got to be around any longer than an hour or so he just loses all grip on. 

Sokka and Aang argue at the front of the saddle, Zuko sits very quietly in the back, and Jet’s stranded in the middle, torn between putting in his two cents with Sokka and Aang or hiding behind Zuko’s breath. Except he’s tired of hiding and he doesn’t have anything to put in and also he doesn’t think he’s welcome in either direction, which is . . . weird, to care about. He never cares about that. He’s built most of his _life_ around not caring about that, finding his way in where he wasn’t wanted, being . . . being . . . 

They run into Toph on the way back into the city. There’s dirt under her nails and she looks pissed, and when they pick her up she plants herself in the saddle and _stews_ in a really weird, jittery way, and Sokka and Aang go back to arguing and Jet just closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing, in and out and in and out and they get back to the city and the Earth King says Katara’s fine and Iroh’s in the house and the Dai Li’s just _outside_ the house, but Katara’s not. 

And neither are Longshot and Smellerbee. 

The others argue with each other while Jet’s heart is busy stopping, and all he can think about is his people. His freedom fighters. The ones he led _wrong_ , the ones he did wrong _by_ , the ones . . . 

He breathes out and it’s so hot it hurts his teeth. 

The Dai Li agent’s face pales, and Jet feels fire licking at his tongue and can’t stop _staring_ at the man, this man who knows where his freedom fighters are, his Longshot his Smellerbee not-his Katara, and his breath comes in short little huffs and maybe he’s panicking a little and maybe he’s getting up the fire to _destroy_ this traitor. They’re all traitors, all the Dai Li, how _dare_ they—how dare they—

How dare they pretend to be on the Earth Kingdom’s side? How dare they lie about what they really are? 

Jet’s teeth grit, and the fire sparking behind them vanishes. He feels his expression change, in some way or another. 

The agent’s face goes dead white. 

Jet steps forward, and—


	18. what time are we upon and where do I belong

Aang misses it. He’s worried about Katara, he’s distracted, he’s not thinking about what he should be watching. Jet’s hands are already reaching for the Dai Li agent before it even occurs to him _to_ think about it. 

Sokka and Zuko are faster on the uptake, apparently, because by the time Aang notices Jet’s moving they’re already yanking him _back_. The Dai Li agent yells, jerking in his stone bonds, and there’s a black handprint with sparks in it staining the neck of his uniform like spilled ink. 

Aang blinks. Jet inhales, _sharp_ , and the sparks _flare_ , and Aang panics—Zuko’s busy controlling Jet, he doesn’t have a hand free, he can’t put the fire out and that means _he_ —

Iroh makes a quick, quelling gesture, and the sparks die without even burning the skin beneath the fabric. The Dai Li agent yells again and starts babbling, and Aang thinks he’s telling them what they need to know and thinks Jet and Sokka are yelling but he can’t actually hear any of it over the roaring in his ears. He’s a firebender. He should’ve been as fast as Iroh to stop that. Just because . . . it’s not bad. _Kuzon_ wasn’t bad. Jeong Jeong and his men weren’t bad. Jet . . . probably isn’t bad. Iroh’s not on their side, really, but he’s decent. 

_Zuko’s_ kind of bad, but that doesn’t prove that fire’ll eat up anyone the way Jeong Jeong said it would. Zuko’s not even as bad as he _could_ be, Aang thinks. 

But the idea of firebending is still _terrifying_ , and he hates himself a little for that. 

Jet did it. Jet did it on _purpose_ , like it was natural, like it was no different from air or water or earth, and Aang could do the same move and it would respond to him just the same. 

He could burn someone just like that. 

“Frick frick _frick_ I will fly us all the way _back_ to the bay and kick you into it if you don’t knock it off!” Sokka swears, smacking Jet upside the head, and Jet’s eyes burn dark and Aang feels sick. 

“They have your _sister_!” Jet snarls, struggling out of Sokka’s grip. “They have my—they have Smellerbee and _Longshot_!” 

“And we’re going to _fix that_ but you don’t need to light the jerk _up_ to do it!” Sokka yells back at him, and they almost scuffle but Zuko yanks Jet back and Jet tries to hit _him_ but _Sokka_ yanks him back and . . . 

Aang stares at them. Iroh’s staring too, looking startled, and that’s how Aang knows he’s not crazy and he actually _is_ seeing Sokka and Zuko corralling Jet. Corralling Jet by _backing each other up_. 

“What the _heck_ did you guys do at the beach?” Toph asks in bemusement. 

“Apparently not enough bay-kicking!” Sokka fumes, and gives Jet a shake. “Moron! You were the one who was so freaked out about burning somebody! You know what would make it a lot easier not to do that is _not setting people’s clothes on fire_!” 

“He deserved it!” Jet shouts back, and there’s something wild and angry in his eyes and Aang remembers about the Dai Li dragging Jet down beneath the lake, that dark place where he was alone and they _hurt_ him there, and now Azula has them and they have—they have _Katara_. Aang’s chest seizes, and he wants to stop the fight but he feels too dizzy to even speak. Toph turns a wary expression towards him and he tries to say something, to tell her he’s alright, it’ll be fine, but the Dai Li took Katara, they _have_ Katara what are they _doing_ to her, are they hurting her? They hurt Jet so _much_ and they _have her_ —

His breath catches. 

“ _‘Deserved’_ —spirits, you are so the worst sifu ever!” Sokka accuses Zuko, and Zuko scowls at him. Something about the scowl is wrong, though, enough to jar Aang out of his thoughts. 

“I didn’t teach him that!” Zuko snaps. “I barely got to teach him anything, _you_ people wanted to gut fish all day!” 

“Yes, totally, and you two weren’t avoiding each other at _all_ during that!” Sokka retorts sarcastically, throwing his hands up in the air. “Ohhhh no, it’s the _Water Tribe’s_ fault that the jerkbending _jerkbenders_ wanna be all wussy-delicate about things. You know back home guys just punch each other and get over it.” 

“We did the punching!” Zuko protests indignantly, then scowls again and shakes his head. “I mean—what the hell, who’d get _over_ it just by punching each other?!” 

“People who aren’t _wusses_!” Sokka throws back, and Zuko looks so pissed but still it looks all wrong and Aang doesn’t _get it_. Saving the world is hard enough, he thinks; he doesn’t need to have to figure out why Zuko’s bad moods suddenly look so weird. If he didn’t _know_ better . . . 

“Don’t call me that!”

“Then don’t _act_ like that and freakin’ solve a problem!” 

“We weren’t going to have an Agni Kai in the middle of a _Water Tribe_ camp!”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so _bitchy_ if you _had_!” 

“Maybe if _you_ hadn’t insisted we _go_ —”

“YOU WEREN’T EVEN INVITED!” 

“Oh man,” Aang says in disbelief, staring at them, and Sokka and Zuko both give him matching strange looks. This is, he decides, the weirdest thing that has happened since he thawed out, bar none. Including everything in Omashu and the Cave of Two Lovers _and_ the canyon. “I can’t believe you guys actually made _friends_.”

_“What?!”_

.

.

.

“Okay,” Sokka says after all the yelling is finally over, standing outside the house and _very_ far from all jerkbending jerkbenders who are _not_ his friends, thankyouverymuch, “we need a plan.” 

“We needed a plan ten _minutes_ ago,” Jet retorts witheringly, and Sokka shoots him a look full of panthershark teeth. 

“Maybe if someone hadn’t tried to _light up_ our only source of information we could’ve been a little more _efficient_ , hmmm?” he snaps pointedly, and Jet scowls back at him and opens his mouth to say something _else_ lippy, no doubt, but Zuko cuts him off— _not_ in any helpful or friendly way, just the normal rude jerkbending Prince Jerko way. 

“So what’s the plan?” he asks. 

. . . dammit. 

“Um, pull another Ghost Town Standoff except kick your sister’s butt this time, obviously?” Sokka says, eyeing the other sourly. Seriously, he cannot get _any_ help on the “proving self not friends with jerkbender” thing? At all? 

“So run until she catches up, basically,” Zuko says dubiously, and Sokka scowls at him. 

“That is _not_ what I said!” he protests. “Somebody can go warn the Earth King and the rest of us’ll go get Katara and Longshot and Smellerbee and _then_ butt-kicking will commence, okay? There’s not _that_ many Dai Li compared to the actual army, all we gotta do is warn the king and the Five Generals and we’re golden.” 

“I’m going to get Katara,” Aang says firmly, immediately, and just as fast Jet says, “I’m going to get Longshot and Smellerbee.” Sokka manages to bite back the _“because they’re going to be SO glad to see you and that can’t work out badly at ALL”,_ but only barely. 

“Fine, somebody go dig out his swords,” he says, and Jet looks stricken, suddenly. 

“You kept my swords?” he asks in a weird voice, and Sokka gives him a bemused look. Why _wouldn’t_ they?

“Dude, hell if I am letting you bend in a fight, you didn’t even get through the _meditation_ exercises at training,” he says accusingly. “For all we know you’d set _yourself_ on fire before you got anywhere near a Dai Li.” 

“Right,” Jet says, and still looks stricken—what the hell _for_ Sokka does not know, but this is seriously not the time to care. 

“Toph and I’ll go talk to the Earth King, then, and Zuko can go with Je—”

“I’m going with you,” Zuko cuts in quickly, and Sokka gives him an incredulous look—seriously, _seriously_ is it so hard to prove they’re not friends, it’s the _truth_ after all—before he actually registers Zuko’s weirdly serious expression and realizes what the other’s thinking. 

“Oh,” he says lamely, a helpful throb of pain reminding his arms that the burns do in fact exist, and will in fact make it impossible for him to do probably _anything_ useful if they run into any Dai Li and end up in a fight. It was bad enough just yanking Jet back and forth. “Right, uh, that’s what I was gonna say, sheesh, don’t interrupt. And Iroh can go with Aang and Jet just in case, you know, any unfortunate fiery problems arise, and then we all meet back up and go from there. Everybody clear?” 

“Wait, you _want_ to take Sparky?” Toph asks, wrinkling her nose. “You just spent all that freakin’ time yelling about how totally lame he was and now you want him for our backup?” 

“Yes,” Sokka lies stubbornly, although really it’s more “frontup”. A stand-in? Whatever, he’s not going to be able to fight right and even Toph can’t handle a whole bunch of Dai Li by herself. Jet’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and Toph’s expression turns dubious; they’re on rock, of course she knows he’s bullshitting her. The important part is that she remembers _he_ knows she knows, and doesn’t—

“You are _so_ lying,” she accuses, and Sokka buries his face in his hands. Spirits save them all from twelve year-olds who think they know everything. 

“Yeah, well, be that as it may, the plan stands,” he says irritably. “Any questions?” 

“I—”

“ _Besides_ why we get Zuko.” 

.

.

.

“Thank goodness we’re in time!” Sokka says in relief, but Zuko’s looking at the girl sitting on the steps beneath the throne. 

“In time for what?” the Earth King asks, sounding puzzled, and Zuko should really be so much more concerned about the fact he just ran into the palace of _Ba Sing Se_ without an invitation, but there’s that girl on the steps. 

“Yeah, what are you in time for, cutie?” the other girl asks brightly, somersaulting forward and popping up right in front of Sokka, who looks startled. 

“Uh, I’m kinda involved with Suki . . .” he says, and the girl looks puzzled. 

“Who?” 

“Ty Lee,” Zuko says, voice thin and wary, and then she actually notices him and her eyes widen in surprise. He tries not to notice the other girl, but she’s right there. Ty Lee would be easier to ignore, at least if he were suicidal. He remembers Ty Lee’s family style and the time or two she practiced it on him, and how _cold_ he felt. 

“Zuko!” she exclaims in delighted surprise, and jumps towards him—like she’s going to hug him, Ty Lee was always like that, he remembers. He sidesteps, _fast_ , and she gives him another startled look. 

He’s startled too. Why did he . . . 

No. He’s really not startled at all. 

“You got tall!” Ty Lee says brightly, unbothered again and beaming at him. “And rugged too, wow! The blue looks kinda weird, though, I totally didn’t even _recognize_ you.” 

“Oh hell,” Sokka says, covering his face with his hands, and Toph’s already shifted into an offensive stance. The Earth King looks puzzled. 

“‘Zuko’? That’s an odd name for Water Tribe, isn’t it?” he asks uncertainly. Zuko’s a little confused by _how_ uncertainly—this _is_ the king, right? He’s dressed enough like it, and he’s sitting on the throne. 

“Yeah, yeah, long story, brother from another mother blah blah _Zuko_ ,” Sokka hisses urgently, the end of his sentence dropping too low for the king to hear, and Zuko tries not to look at the girl on the steps. Sokka grabs his arm, his eyes just barely widening as he does, and that little tell of pain on the other’s face almost makes it possible to think again. 

He thinks. 

“We’re taking the Earth King,” Sokka says, sharp as flint or steel or just a bad idea. “I don’t care _what_ you guys do, but _you_ owe me staying the hell out of the way at least this once.” 

“‘Owe you’?” Ty Lee asks doubtfully, and Zuko keeps not looking at the girl on the stairs, and Toph’s posture tenses. Zuko senses the fight about to happen; Toph will start, Ty Lee will respond, the girl on the steps will cut in, and Sokka can’t _fight_. 

Hell. 

They’re not going to listen to him. They never listened to him, even though he was older—even when an adult left him in _charge_ they didn’t listen to him, it was always Azula. They’re not going to listen to him and Sokka can’t _fight_ and that means it’s just Toph and of course Sokka won’t _let_ it be just Toph and _hell_ — 

_“Zuko,”_ Sokka snaps, squeezing his arm much harder than he should be able to. “Your friends are wearing my _girlfriend’s_ friends’ armor.” 

Zuko does not want to do this. 

“Take him,” he says, covering his face with a hand, but he still sees Ty Lee frown.

“Zukoooo!” she protests scoldingly. “Don’t say that, Azula might still want him for something! Right, Azula?” 

Zuko hates everything that has ever, ever happened in his life. 

Honestly, he really did think Azula would be where Katara was: she was _perfect_ Avatar bait, why would she be anywhere else when she could have the _Avatar_? But Azula smiles with her teeth as she steps out of nowhere, not where she should be, and the look in her eye sends an infuriated chill up Zuko’s spine. It’s that look where she’s already won and _knows_ it, and the next thing she does will make him wish he’d never been born. 

“Zuzu,” she says silkily, drawing her voice like a sword. “The Earth King has invited you to Lake Laogai.” 

Zuko blinks. Toph and Sokka both jump a mile and jerk back from him with horrified expressions, and he blinks again. 

Wait. 

_What?_

“He’s what?” he asks, bemused. Where’s the poison barb in her words, the dart to take him down? Ty Lee’s no help, she looks just as confused as he is, and he still can’t look to the girl on the stairs. Azula’s eyes narrow, just barely, and then blue fire sparks along her sharpened nails and against the Earth King’s throat, and Sokka freezes and Toph with him. 

“Hn. I was looking forward to that, too,” Azula says archly. “But one way works as well as another.” And then she smiles again, condescendingly, and starts talking about . . . well, she’s talking. Zuko hears the dripping walls of Lake Laogai and sees Jet’s panicked, tearstained face and a Dai Li’s burned collar and feels . . . wrong. Azula’s words slot into place in his mind on delay, all a moment late, and he realizes she’s . . . wait. She—wait. 

She wants him to help her. 

She wants him to help her, she wants to take the whole _city_ together, to bring it and the Avatar back to Father like no one else ever could, and if he does . . . 

“Crap,” he hears Sokka mutter under his breath, and Toph hisses something at him, and Azula’s fingers are still sparking blue fire at the Earth King’s throat and Ty Lee’s still too dangerous to ignore and the girl on the steps is still impossible to and Zuko . . . he . . . 

“I need you, Zuko,” Azula says, and for a second he actually believes her. Except she doesn’t. _Need_ is Jet struggling to breathe, is Sokka’s burned and empty hands, is—“At the end of this day, you will have your honor back. You will have your father’s love.” 

And it’s Azula saying it, but it might actually be true. If he helped her bring their father the Avatar _and_ the Impenetrable City . . . Father would forgive him, wouldn’t he? That would be enough, that would _have_ to be, it’s not like Father really _wants_ him gone forever—he gave him a way back to begin with, didn’t he? He didn’t prove himself worthy of it, he’s taken so long, but if he _could_ , if he could do it and could do _this_ . . .

_He doesn’t even want you,_ Jet’s voice says in his head. Jet’s eyes, drained and dull and doubtless, and how would he even know, Jet doesn’t know _anything_. Except he does. But he doesn’t. 

Jet told him he wanted needed. Jet told him the only reason he was trying to help him was _because_ he wanted needed. 

But no matter what Zuko wants, he would’ve had to help Jet anyway. He’s . . . he _was_ the prince, or he is, or he could be again. He is a son of the sun and a son of fire and a son of Sozin, and maybe he’s the worst master anyone could ever end up stuck with, but . . . but . . . 

“You will have everything you want,” Azula says, and smiles with honest victory in her teeth. 

Zuko knows there’s only one choice to make.


	19. pain can give you sight or make you blind

“This is going to sound bad, but why are you helping us?” Aang asks Iroh doubtfully somewhere in the process of digging through the earth before them and blocking it up behind to keep anyone they don’t want from following. Jet made that point when they started, but looks really bad for being the guy who did—every time the rocks behind them grind closed he twitches, and he’s practically on top of Iroh and the little fire the other’s holding. It’s not like it’s even that small a space—they need to _breathe_ , after all, all three of them and Iroh’s little fire on top of that—but Jet looks miserable all the same, clutching his swords like they’re the last thing he’ll ever hold on to. 

Aang kind of gets it, but kind of doesn’t. 

“Besides it being the right thing to do?” Iroh inquires mildly, and Aang flushes in embarrassment. He really _doesn’t_ mean it that way . . . except for how he kind of does. Iroh just smiles, though. “My nephew is obligated to Jet, and by extent to Jet’s allies.” 

“What?” Jet asks, and laughs weirdly—not that horrible sob-laugh, but not much better. 

“He bent your fire without your consent outside of combat,” Iroh says. “There are very strict rules about that, and it is only allowed in very specific circumstances. So specific that if those circumstances are not in place beforehand, they _must_ be afterwards. No decent citizen of the Fire Nation would ever break those rules.” Jet laughs again at the word “decent”, and Aang tries to remember. It’s been a long time, even if you don’t count the part in the iceberg. 

“It just means he has to be Jet’s teacher, right?” he asks hesitantly, feeling like he’s forgetting something. 

“It means he is responsible for Jet,” Iroh corrects. “To declare another bender incapable of controlling his own fire is very . . . I am not sure how to explain it so you will understand. The closest comparison I can think of is to declare a child incapable of caring for itself and taking it into your own home to raise in your own image. Adopting those without family or a master is a normal practice.” 

“‘Adopting’?” Jet repeats, and _grins_ , crooked and cracked and all wrong. 

_You did that,_ Aang thinks without even really thinking: the fact just slots into his head as he looks back at the other, like Smellerbee and Longshot’s faces, and Pipsqueak and Sneers and the Duke and every other kid he’d met or seen in that camp. _You saw they were weak and you showed them how to be like you instead._

“Oh,” is all he says, and Jet laughs again and it’s that one that’s really a sob, and Iroh pauses and looks at him with sad, serious eyes and is probably going to say something, Aang thinks, but then the next sweep of his arm pushes the wall ahead away entirely and luminescent green light falls on them, and Jet bolts ahead and breathes the cavern’s freer air in gulps and gasps that shake him, that Aang can _feel_ being torn out of the air. 

Iroh said “rules”, he realizes belatedly as he watches the man watch Jet. Rules. Not laws. 

He isn’t sure if there’s a difference, or what to think if there is. 

.

.

.

Katara is tired and weaker than she wants to be, and Smellerbee and Longshot aren’t talking to her and haven’t even tried to find a way to escape, haven’t even helped her with _her_ tries. They don’t care anymore, she thinks as she watches them from the corner of her eye, and she wants to _make_ them. Jet isn’t dead, _they’re_ not dead, there’s—there’s something here, something to _fight_ for and maybe it’s not the something they all thought, but . . . but . . . 

But there’s a war. There’s a war and they’ve all suffered and they’ve all lost people and they’ve all done the best they could.

Jet did the best he could. He was wrong, but he was still trying.

They should be trying.

Why aren’t they _trying_?

“This is so stupid,” she mutters, because it is, and she gets to her feet and stalks the cave floor and wants _water_ , somewhere, how can there not be water somewhere in this place, it’s a _cave_ , caves are _full_ of water—

She hits crystal and hates it, and hits it again, and despises and despises and _despises_ and Azula is here, she is here and Ty Lee and Mai are here and they are here in Kyoshi green, they are wearing the colors of the Avatar’s disciples, they are wearing _Suki’s_ colors, and if they are here and doing that then _where is Suki_ , where are the other Kyoshi Warriors, what did they _do_ to them?

There are too few people in the world willing to fight anyway, Katara thinks, not looking at Longshot and Smellerbee, not thinking of Jet crying like a lost little boy, sparking like one of those _monsters_. 

But they’re not monsters. Aang is right—maybe some of them are but some of them are silly performers and some of them are grim deserters and some of them are clumsy bomb-makers and rickety old men in the forest and sad uncles who used to be fathers and little girls fishing drowned dolls out of the water, and some of them are little boys pulling Momo’s tail, and little boys crying from inside bigger ones. 

_Jet,_ Katara thinks, breathing deep, and thinks it with longing for the first time in . . . in a long time. Like if she thinks it hard enough he will be that boy in the forest again, handsome and strong and confident and _good_. Right. The hero he’d been to all those lost and forgotten kids, and not the killer he’d tried to be.

He was the first time, she remembers, closing her eyes and bracing her hands against crystal walls, their crystal cage, the things holding them in. Before Long Feng, before General Fong, before anyone else they should’ve been able to trust betrayed them or their nation or the world—Jet was the first time. The one who proved that the enemy didn’t always have to be wearing black and red armor, the one who proved that a smile or a warm grip didn’t necessarily mean someone was a good person.

The one who proved that sometimes the enemy needed protected too.

Katara breathes in again, slow, and drops into a crouch. Her palms press flat against the crystal floor, and she thinks: _this is a cave. this is deep._

_there is water in the deep._

She sees Jet’s face, the lying smile and the devastated tears and the eyes she’d thought she could trust. She sees Aang’s, the doubt and the certainty and the pure white blaze of the Avatar inside him.

_water. water. there is always water, where is the—_

Deep.

There’s water down deep.

There _has_ to be. 

She feels something, just for a breath, and then the wall falls in and Katara looks up and it’s Aang, green crystal parting before his hands. Iroh is behind him, she notices a second later, and _Jet_ , and she doesn’t know whether to grab Aang or Jet first so in the end she throws herself at both of them and holds on as hard as she can.

“You’re here!” she cries, stupidly, and Aang and Jet both grab her, grip her like they thought she was _dead_ or like they almost died themselves, she doesn’t know, but Jet’s breath is hotter than it should be and Aang’s hands are trembling with relief. Katara feels real again, awake again, and keeps holding on.

“Are you guys okay?” Jet asks quietly, and she almost answers before she realizes—he’s not asking _her_.

Longshot and Smellerbee don’t answer, though.

.

.

.

“What the hell,” Sokka says for the millionth time, staring in disbelief across the cell, and Zuko keeps his face buried in his hands and doesn’t look back at him. “No seriously. _What_.” 

“Shut up,” Zuko mutters, and Toph takes her hands off the door. 

“Some—” she starts. 

“Just shut _up_!” Zuko roars, his voice echoing alarmingly against the metal walls, and the Earth King yelps and claps his hands over his ears, looking traumatized. Sokka thinks he kind of hates the guy a little, but mostly he hates Long Feng and the Five Generals for thinking this was any way to have a king. Because what, they’d all wanted power that bad that they’d cripple their whole city, their whole _nation_ with an unfit ruler? 

Yeah. That was just . . . awesome, really. 

“Zuko,” a voice says from outside the door, and everyone jumps. Everyone not Toph, anyway. 

“I _tried_ to warn you, moron,” she says sourly, glowering in Zuko’s direction. 

“Mai,” Zuko mutters, head jerking up. He looks so _pained_ , which is almost even weirder than the fact he turned Azula down—Sokka’s pretty sure she couldn’t have dangled better Zuko-bait if she’d dipped Aang in honey, rolled him in fire flakes, and put him on a string. But Zuko didn’t bite, which means either the worst liar he’s ever met is pulling a fast one on him, or Zuko actually _didn’t bite_. 

“What are you doing, Zuko?” Mai asks quietly. Sokka eyes the window in the cell door and the bare shadow of her shoulder, and wonders how effective she could be through that small an opening. Considering some of the targets he’s seen her hit, they’re pretty much all sitting duckfish in a barrel. 

Trying to grab her around the neck would be a bad idea, is basically what he’s saying here. 

“It’s not your business,” Zuko snaps, flaring up, and Mai’s shoulder relaxes minutely. When she speaks, though, her voice could put subarctic chill to shame. 

“I suppose not,” she says, and then just turns away and leaves like it’s nothing. _Girls_ , Sokka thinks incredulously, and eyes Zuko. A minute or so passes, and Toph makes a little “okay” gesture. 

“Can it be _our_ business now?” Sokka demands. “Because as much fun as having _no clue_ what you’re doing is, I’d _really_ like to understand what the hell’s going on before you get bored and go back to pitching for the old team without so much as a by your leave, okay?” 

“Shut up,” Zuko says again, sounding so tired and sinking back in on himself. He looks defeated, which is a bad sign with anyone but a _horrible_ one with Zuko, and . . . and when did Sokka learn this much about the guy, anyway? Okay, yes, obviously he’s going to pick up some of the basics somewhere in all those scuffles, it’s only smart to know your enemy, but really, _really_ he needed to know this _much_? 

He is pretty sure that he did not. 

“Don’t be an ass,” he says, and then glances to the door again. He really wanted to get a clear answer from Zuko before they broke out, but they don’t have the time to be dicking around with the guy’s issues. “Look, if you seriously want to help us, then come; if you don’t just split off now and go see if Azula’s offer still stands. Or maybe just get the hell out of the city, I don’t know, whatever you want.” 

“I—” Zuko starts, but they’re still pretty much out of time and Sokka doesn’t have the patience to wait anymore. 

“Toph, are we clear?” he asks, and she grins. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” she says casually, then steps up to the door and cracks her knuckles with a smirk that has all her teeth in it. “Better stand back, boys.” 

Zuko shifts back slightly; Sokka’s got more experience with Toph, though, and shoves Zuko and the Earth King both back against the far wall of the cell. 

“Maybe cover your heads,” he advises, and Zuko scowls and the king looks bemused and Toph just _laughs_ and slams her fingers into the cell door. The metal crumples like parchment and she _squeezes_ , and then tears it all away and yeah, the paper analogy was pretty accurate, Sokka decides as he watches her crush it up into a ball and throw it down the hall. 

He would really not want to ever get between Toph and something she wanted to do. 

“Okay then,” he says. “Running like the dickens sound good to anybody else? I’m for that plan.” 

“Not without Bosco!” the king protests indignantly. Sokka gives him an incredulous look—what the hell, this is not Aang and Appa and a spirit-animal _you-are-all-that-is-left-of-the-world-as-I-knew-it_ thing; this is not even _Momo_ who’s tiny and quick and actually occasionally _useful_. Bosco is big and lumbering and slow and as thick as the Earth King himself. 

“You want to go back to a throne room full of Fire Nation warriors and Dai Li agents. For the _bear_ ,” he says, just staring at the man, and the other nods enthusiastically. Sokka keeps staring, and the king looks earnest and stubborn as hell and Toph shakes out her hands with an unhealthily dangerous grin and Zuko . . . well, Zuko looks pretty unhappy but isn’t running in the opposite direction with clearly dubious intent. Which is something, he guesses. 

Also, they’re all looking at him. 

Oh _spirits_ , he hates being the boss. 

For one thing, he never actually gets to make any of the decisions.


	20. we’re gonna burn this city, burn this city

Katara is adamant about the way they should go, and they find out why when she leads them into a huge and gleaming cavern cut in half by an underground river. Her whole face lights up at the sight, and she’s beautiful in the bright green light that reflects off the water and Jet almost says that—but he can’t, he can’t say things like that now. 

He almost does. 

Then the Dai Li drop in, and there isn’t really time. Somehow the girls in green who come with them are worse, though. 

“Jet, look out!” Katara shouts, sounding much too scared for him as one of the girls drops down from a jump an airbender would envy and lands right in front of him. She jabs at him fast, light and quick like she's dancing, not even settling on her feet—as if some one-two love tap would even _hurt_ , compared to everything he's survived before this. Jet wants to laugh, but it sounds less like laughing every time. 

He twists; avoids one punch, two, the third and the fourth, and just barely the fifth. She doesn't have the openings that would let him hit back, and she's holding her fists oddly. Katara throws a wave at her before getting distracted by a rush of flame from one of the other girls, and the girl cartwheels out of the way: flashy, Jet thinks absently as she turns it into a double and then a triple for no reason he can see. Like a performer, not a warrior. 

The girl sticks her landing and smiles at him, bright and vapid. For a second he thinks maybe she got the Joo Dee whammy, or at least whatever whammy they put on _him_ , but there's no sign of strain or pain in her eyes. 

Plus she winks at him, which he's pretty sure isn't Dai Li SOP. 

Maybe she's Fire like the other girl, Jet thinks, but she's no Fire he's ever seen. Not like that's going to keep him from taking her out—no mercy for collaborators, no mercy for _any_ —

He recognizes the voice saying that in his head and stumbles, and _shudders_. 

She hits him. 

And Jet doesn't know what or how or why, but when she does it's like she's breaking his heart. 

But it also gives him the first opening to hit _back_ , and later he'll hate himself that when he finally strikes out, it's not his swords he moves with first, not a slash or a stab: it's a sweep, and it's _fire_. That's his instinct, that's his first response, the place he goes. 

Right now, though, the only thing he can think about is how the fire _isn’t there_.

“Huh. You know, you’re kinda scrawny for an earthbender,” the girl says, wrinkling her nose as she dances back again, feet barely touching the ground. “Was that even a real earthbending _move_?” 

Jet stares at fingers that won't spark, and everything in him stops. 

“No. It wasn't,” the other girl says, _smiling_. 

.

.

.

They switch opponents—more like opponents switch _them_ —and while Longshot and Smellerbee are facing off with a girl with flashing dark knives and Aang and Iroh are holding off more Dai Li than Jet even knew _existed_ , Katara's avoiding one-two jabs with near-feverish desperation and Jet's getting slammed into a wall by a kick that a warhammer would be jealous of. They're stupidly split up and scattered and have no plan or place to retreat and what the hell, isn't Aang supposed to be the Avatar, isn't Iroh the _Dragon_ , isn't someone in _charge_ here?!

They're doing this wrong. 

Jet's shivering fingers twitch around the hilts of his swords, wanting something that's not there, but as if he's never fought like that before. As if that's not the only way he's _ever_ really fought. 

“You aren't army,” his opponent observes thoughtfully, sliding gracefully into a strike that looks effortless on her part but nearly burns his face off. “Mind, you have the basic forms and of course that ruffian look, but really, even a _deserter_ ought to have more taste than to join up with the Avatar.” Jet sees red, and punches her with the barbed hilt of his sword. Deserters are the lowest of the low—and so are firebenders, something in him mutters, furtive and familiar but almost drowned out because he _can't bend_. 

And that should be a relief, that should be the best relief he's ever had, but instead he's _furious_. 

“And you're wearing Water Tribe colors too,” the girl muses in that same thoughtful tone, narrowly evading the punch—narrowly enough that the blade tears her shirt open and reveals the dark leather armor underneath, and she scowls. “Ty Lee! You're supposed to at least _partially_ disable them.” 

“I _tried_ , Azula!” Katara's opponent—Ty Lee—protests in the middle of a mid-air twist that hurts just to _look_ at, but probably hurts a lot less than getting nailed by that spray of ice and hail she's dodging would've, Jet figures. “He's got _swords_ , I didn't know he was a bender!” 

“Perhaps you should pay a bit more attention next time,” Azula remarks. Her voice isn't spiteful or angry or particularly anything at all, but her eyes are narrowed just a little in a way that sets off more warning bells in Jet's head than the blue flames tracing the sharp arc of her palm heading for his neck. He throws himself backwards just in time, feeling like he should say something, a taunt or a distraction or _something_ , but nothing's coming to mind. It's supposed to be _easy_ to find words, but right now the closest thing to “easy” is staying in the fight. And that's not even easy; just inevitable. 

“Uh—right!” Ty Lee says nervously, and comes down on Katara's head. She mostly lands in a water whip, but they both go down and Ty Lee's fingers hit _something_ that makes Katara cry out and water splatter down onto the floor. 

Jet's fingers twitch, and the coldness in his chest tightens. _Not mine,_ he thinks, because Katara's not and won't ever be. Because he _wanted_ her to be and probably still does and doesn't really know what to do with that. 

But the sound of that small cry . . . he knows exactly what to do with that. 

He _always_ knows what to do with that. 

He whistles a command, shrill and sharp, and the arrow's pinning Ty Lee's braid to the ground before his voice even has time to echo. Longshot looks startled to have shot at all and Smellerbee's knives jerk in her hands and Jet catches a glimpse of her furiously bright eyes, but the fact he can see either of their faces at all means he knows they'll listen. 

He whistles again—a sweet, high-pitched pattern—and Longshot rolls one way while Smellerbee darts the other, and the girl with knives twists and picks the wrong target, like everyone who assumes _no one_ can accurately fire an arrow coming out of a roll. Longshot hits her in the small of the back at close range with a blunt-tipped shaft, and her eyes widen just a little as she staggers forward under the impact. Blades appear in her hands even as she's falling, and Jet kind of thinks he'd like her, if she weren't Fire. But Smellerbee's already there inside the seconds Longshot bought her, though, bringing down the hilts of her own knives on the back of the girl's head and bringing her down. 

“Mai!” Ty Lee yelps as the girl hits the floor with a sound like a collapsing armory, knives and needles dropping uselessly out of limp hands and skittering across the floor. Longshot's already pinning her sleeves the same way he did the braid Ty Lee's frantically yanking on, and with the moment to recover Katara's lifting her good arm and the water on the ground's coming with it. Jet grins at the sight, bright and savage and only a little pained. 

Azula is looking at him, narrow-eyed disdainful and considering. 

He thinks about saying something again, but instead just whistles orders. 

.

.

.

“I betrayed my nation for a _bear_ ,” Zuko mutters disgruntledly as they peer around the corner into the throne room. Sokka scowls at him. 

“You’re _not helping_ , buddy,” he says. 

“Don’t call me buddy!” 

“Don’t be a _jerk_!” 

“There’s like twelve Dai Li in there, you should probably not tip them off,” Toph warns them. “Just saying.” 

“You want us to fight _twelve Dai Li_ for a _bear_ ,” Sokka says, and Kuei nods eagerly. Sokka throws his hands up in the air. Of course. Of _course_. Spirits save them all from literally any adult in a position of power’s priorities. “My sister is in danger! The _Avatar_ is probably in danger!” 

“So is Bosco!” Kuei protests. 

“What did I say about tipping off the Dai Li?” Toph asks, which is all the warning they get before the rocks start flying. Kuei yelps in fear and Sokka curses, throwing his arms up over his head. Zuko curses much louder and tackles him out of the way of a pair of rock gloves. Sokka would appreciate it, but the impact of his burned arms against the marble floor is freaking _agony_. 

“You’d better be better at fighting earthbenders than you are at fighting Aang,” he says feelingly. Zuko scowls. 

“Is this _really_ the time to be complaining?” he asks. 

“Are you kidding me, this is _exactly_ the time to be complaining!” Sokka says indignantly. “Also we’re surrounded, you should do something about that.” 

“ _I_ should?!” 

“You guys are the worst,” Toph says in exasperation, twisting a foot against the floor. A pillar of marble blasts up and smashes into two Dai Li, sending them flying, and the others rush them. Sokka would _love_ to grab his war club right now but that’s not gonna go great for him, probably. 

Alternately, though, they all end up in another cell. Or dead. 

Man, this sucks. 

Zuko spits fire, Toph covers herself in rock, and Kuei scrambles out of the way to hide behind the nearest pillar, which is some small mercy. Sokka just grabs his boomerang and hopes it’ll be easier to throw than his club would be to wield, under the circumstances. He _really_ wishes he’d had a chance to see Katara before all this went down, his arms are _not_ gonna thank him for this. 

This is seriously a problem. For starters, he’s injured, and on top of that Kuei’s useless so the Dai Li outnumber them four to one, which are not Sokka’s favorite odds ever. Better than the guy being a hostage again, though, which hopefully no one’s going to think of. Does the Earth Kingdom do hostages? He really doesn’t know. 

Well, there was the Bumi thing, and the Fong thing, maybe those— _oh spirits_. Sokka dodges a pair of rock gloves just in time to keep from getting his bell rung and Toph tears up the floor. He smells burning and hears screaming, which normally would not be so reassuring, and sends his boomerang at the Dai Li who made a grab for him. The throw’s bad, though, and the Dai Li dodges it easily. Sokka curses again as it sticks high in the side of a pillar and pulls out his war club after all. This is going to _hurt_. 

Hopefully not just him, at least. 

The Dai Li are mostly piling on Toph and Zuko, which is sort of a relief and sort of insulting, but that still leaves two with obvious intent to mess him up. Sokka adjusts his grip on his club carefully, hoping it’s not super obvious how much pain he’s already in, and smashes the glove headed for his face out of the air. The impact does _not_ feel good, but he’s pretty sure it’s still better than taking the hit would’ve been. He catches a glimpse of Toph sliding by and really wishes they’d thought to bring along part of that door on this rescue mission, because the metalbending thing would be _really helpful_ for dealing with these guys right now. Like, he definitely should’ve thought of that one sooner. 

Hn. Do the Dai Li wear metal? Maybe those little tassels on their hats, but it’s hard to tell from here. If they _were_ he figures Toph’d already be using them, but just in case—

“ _Please_ tell me there is metal in this room, Toph!” he yells to her as he smacks away another pair of gloves, and she stops mid-slide, knocking over a Dai Li in the process, and cocks her head. 

“Oh yeah,” she says, lifting an arm towards the throne. “Good point.” 

Oh thank _Yue_. 

.

.

.

Jet keeps whistling—codes? orders? Katara’s not sure—and Longshot and Smellerbee keep responding to them. Mai is motionless on the floor and Ty Lee is still struggling to free her braid from the arrow pinning it down and the Dai Li were already having enough trouble handling Aang and Iroh on their own; Longshot and Smellerbee dropping down on their heads is _not_ doing them any good. It’s the best the whole fight has been going so far, all things considered. 

Except for the part where Jet can’t bend and is fighting a royal firebending prodigy one on one, obviously. 

Katara freezes Ty Lee’s braid and Mai’s wrists to the ground with her good arm and runs to help Jet before Azula _kills_ him. He’s fast and he’s _good_ , but so’s Azula, and she’s wearing armor and has the advantage of being able to make ranged attacks. Jet doesn’t have so much as arm guards or a breastplate, and he already looked pretty bruised up when he first showed up. And that’s without taking into account the condition he’s been in since Lake Laogai, which—who knows how much he’s even recovered, yet? 

Not much, Katara can’t help assuming. It’s only been a couple days since he found out he wasn’t even what _nation_ he thought he was, after all. Since he found out he was something he _despises_. 

She’s still not sure how hard he’s trying to survive, after everything that’s happened. 

Azula lashes out with fire, and Katara throws a wave at her. Azula dodges, and Katara skids to a stop next to Jet, accidentally splashing water over his feet. He glances over to her, and she drops into a defensive stance. 

“Jet! Are you alright?!” she demands. 

“Never better,” he lies with a smile, lifting his swords beside her, and it’s just like meeting him for the first time all over again. Or it would be, anyway, if they’d ever fought side by side like this back then. 

Azula attacks. Katara retreats, steam rising between them, and Jet pushes forward through it. She chases him with watery tentacles and Azula lunges at him with licks of fire, and their elements collide again and again and Jet dodges again and again and comes up swinging. Azula avoids him so narrowly that he slices through her sleeve, and he avoids _her_ so narrowly that she singes his shirt. Katara calls up another wave, and Azula leaps away. 

Jet bares his teeth. It looks like a grin, but it’s _Jet_ , so she’s pretty sure it’s not. He whistles again, and Katara hears bodies hit the floor. She can’t spare the moment to see what’s happened, and can only hope they were Dai Li. They can _win_ this, if they’re careful and no one does anything—

“Alright, that’s enough playing around,” Azula says with a wicked, flame-lit smile. “Jet, is it?” 

“You think I care if you know my name?” Jet asks, adjusting his grip on his swords. He looks like that boy in the forest, brave and determined and before they knew better about him. Azula just smiles wider. 

“Jet,” she says. “The Earth King has invited you to Lake Laogai.”


	21. you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out

Toph binds up the Dai Li with metal cuffs, they get the stupid bear, Kuei doesn’t trip and fall into another hostage situation, and Zuko doesn’t sell them out. Everything would be great, if Sokka’s arms would stop screaming in pain with every little movement. 

Oh, and if he had any idea where Katara was. That would be nice. 

“This is a bad time,” Sokka says. 

“You think?” Zuko retorts. “Azula’s this close to conquering Ba Sing Se, we don’t know _where_ the Avatar is, we don’t know where my _uncle_ is—” 

“Yeah I would not complain about having the Dragon of the West around and on my side right now,” Sokka mutters. Like, ancestors forgive him and all, he’s just heard a few things about the guy since they left the South Pole and most of it ended “and then he won”. They could use some of that right about now. “They’ve gotta still be somewhere under the palace, right? I mean, where else would they have gone?” 

“The _palace_ is bigger than most _towns_ I’ve been in!” Zuko snaps, which is admittedly a pretty good point for a jerkbending jerkbender. Still— 

“Big deal, we’ve got the greatest earthbender in the world!” Sokka says a bit more breezily than he’s feeling. Or, well, a lot. “If they’re down there, Toph can find them.” 

“I mean, duh,” Toph snorts, cracking her knuckles with a smirk. “Come on, who’s ready to go Avatar-hunting?” 

“. . . let’s not use that phrasing around Zuko, it’s probably not the best idea.” 

.

.

.

The Dai Li won’t stop coming. Aang didn’t even know there _were_ this many Dai Li, it’s _ridiculous_ that there are this many Dai Li, why would Ba Sing Se even _need_ this many Dai Li? 

Not for any good reasons, clearly. 

He’s fighting his best, disabling as many of them as he can, but there’s so _many_ it makes it hard. He catches glimpses of Iroh and even Longshot and Smellerbee, but even with them on their side the tide of agents just doesn’t seem to stop. How many more could there possibly be? How many more could there possibly be _here_? 

“Too many” seems to be the answer, so that’s not great. 

Aang blows back one Dai Li, throws crystal at another, dodges another and another, twists and turns and _defends_ —

Katara screams. 

Katara screams, and Aang forgets everything else. 

_“Katara!”_ he yells, looking desperately for her through the crush of Dai Li and finding— 

Katara’s on the ground, Jet standing over her with his swords drawn, panting, and Azula watching and laughing. For a moment he doesn’t understand. Did Azula knock her down? What’s wrong with Jet? 

Then he recognizes the look on the other’s face. 

“Oh no,” he says. 

“Jet, what are you _doing_?!” Smellerbee shrieks. Jet doesn’t look at her. 

He looks at Aang, and lifts his swords. 

Oh _no_. 

Aang opens his mouth, and Jet _bolts_ the distance between them, butcher-hook swords swinging. He leaps right over the Dai Li between them and comes down a slashing blur, and Aang barely dodges in time. 

“Jet!” he yells. “You’re a—!” 

Jet kicks him in the stomach, and he staggers back, all the air knocked out of his lungs. Jet slashes at him with his swords and Aang is only barely fast enough to avoid having his throat cut open. He’s struggling to breathe again, struggling to get up a defense, and Jet is attacking mercilessly. It’s all he can do to avoid his strikes. 

“Jet—” he tries again, voice cracked and choked, and Jet hooks his ankle with a sword and yanks him off his feet, then stabs down with the other. Aang manages to jerk his body to the side, but the miss is _terrifyingly_ close. He doesn’t like to think about what swords like Jet’s would do if they got into him. 

He needs to _talk_ , but he can still barely _breathe_. 

It’s a little alarming that Jet still has enough strategizing ability to do that. 

Or very. Very alarming. 

“This isn’t you!” he manages to wheeze out. Jet doesn’t give him the space to catch his breath, because Jet is _always_ merciless, and Aang feels a flash of hate for Long Feng and the Dai Li and _everything_ about Ba Sing Se—

He dodges Jet’s next strike and takes a breath and blows himself into the air. Jet’s a beat too slow to catch him, but the rock gloves that fly at him from all sides are _not_. They strike, knocking him for a loop, and Aang crashes back to the floor. 

Jet lands on top of him and brings down the sharp hilts of his swords. Aang jerks his head out of the way just fast enough not to lose an eye—or both eyes, more likely; Jet is _vicious_ —and they slash deep across his cheek and screech against the floor. Aang tries to throw him off, but Jet’s too big and too quick and Aang can’t _breathe_ with his knee in his gut. He’s pretty sure he’s about to die. 

Jet pulls back his swords, and Smellerbee hits him from the side. 

_“NO!”_ Aang finally manages to yell again, but it’s already much too late. Smellerbee’s knife sinks into Jet’s ribs and Longshot’s arrow goes through his shoulder and he goes down bleeding, bleeding, _bleeding_ —

Azula laughs, and lands in the middle of them in a blast of flame, knocking them all back

“That was even more fun than I thought it was going to be,” she says with malicious pleasure, then throws an offhand lash of flame at Smellerbee and drives forward towards Aang, who’s maybe never wanted to be in a fight less. 

Jet lies on the floor, and doesn’t move. 

.

.

.

The children are shouting. Iroh sees Aang and Azula locked in combat, Smellerbee and Longshot close by, and Jet and Katara both defenseless on the ground. He tries to get through the crush of Dai Li to get to them, but the Dai Li are too good at keeping them divided. Even now they're driving Longshot and Smellerbee back and surrounding Aang. It is very much a problem. The Dai Li will overwhelm them if they can keep them apart, and they can't risk that. 

He would really prefer to have a few more fighters on their side, not to mention a bit more experience fighting together. They just aren't a unit, unlike the Dai Li and Azula and her friends—though they, at least, seem to be out of the action for the moment, which is some small mercy, if—

Then he glimpses Mai standing over Jet with ice on her sleeves and Ty Lee straightening up beside Katara, the end of her braid hacked short. His heart drops. He doesn't have time to do anything, too pressed by the Dai Li surrounding him to do anything but defend. He can only hope they'll ignore Jet and Katara as non-threats, but even if they do that's still two more bodies going against them, two more enemies to fight, and Mai and Ty Lee are far more dangerous than a Dai Li or two. 

They are going to lose. They might hold out for some time still, but they are losing all the same. They need— _something_ , Iroh doesn't have the room to think of what. Katara to get up, her brother to _show_ up, or young Toph or just _anything_ that might turn the tide, any gift or trick or boon. There must be something they can do. 

There _must_. 

The Dai Li charge, and Iroh spits fire in their faces. They recoil, and he takes the opening to press forward and run towards Longshot and Smellerbee, who are back to back and looking increasingly close to being overwhelmed. They can’t afford to lose any more fighters. The Dai Li flank in an attempt to cut him off, and he narrowly avoids being surrounded again. 

The wall of flame probably helps with that, but it doesn’t help when Longshot and Smellerbee recoil in terror right into stone gloves. 

He should have thought of that, Iroh realizes too late, and sends quick bursts of flame to break the gloves’ grips on them. Smellerbee screams. Longshot nearly shoots him. He’d apologize, perhaps, but they really don’t have the time. They both seem to realize that, at least, because the moment they’re free they’re going for the Dai Li who attacked them. They may kill them; Iroh doesn’t have the time to check. 

They know how to fight as a unit, at least, and there’s space between them for him to fit. No doubt it’s where Jet belongs, but Jet is on the ground and in no condition to fill it. Iroh is willing to take it if the other two are willing to allow it. 

It reminds him to be careful, though, because none of these children have ever fought with a firebender on their side, and he can’t expect them to know where not to be like a Fire Nation soldier or sailor would. Certainly he can’t expect them to be Zuko. 

It’s a difficult fight, and it’s not getting easier. It’s not helped by the fact most of the Dai Li are focused on them now, and it’s helped even less by Mai and Ty Lee dropping in. Ty Lee hits Longshot in the arm and Mai knocks Smellerbee’s knife out of her hand, and the Dai Li crash in like a wave. Iroh hears a cry of pain from Aang, but can’t spare the moment to look. Smellerbee’s disarmed, Longshot can only use one arm, and they’re all one wrong move from being crushed or captured; there just isn’t _time_. There isn’t time for _anything_. They need space. They need reinforcements. They need— 

Jet stands up in Iroh’s peripheral vision, panting for breath with an arrow in his shoulder and blood all down his side and a sword in each hand. 

He looks . . . strange. 

.

.

.

The enemies of Ba Sing Se must die. Ba Sing Se must be preserved. The enemies of Ba Sing Se must die. Ba Sing Se . . . 

There is no war in Ba Sing Se. 

But the enemies of Ba Sing Se must die. 

The body hurts. Its mouth tastes like blood. It’s wounded. 

None of that matters. There is no war in Ba Sing Se so there can be no enemies of Ba Sing Se so the enemies of Ba Sing Se must die. Must be destroyed so completely that they might as well never have existed, because there are no enemies of Ba Sing Se, so there can be no enemies of Ba Sing Se. 

The body’s head hurts. 

The enemies of Ba Sing Se must die. 

The enemies of Ba Sing Se are . . .


	22. every night I burn, every night I fall again

Longshot’s arm is numb, hanging useless at his side. Smellerbee’s hand is bleeding. He’s almost out of arrows, she’s shaking with fury and terror, and their only backup is a firebender who’s _insanely_ outnumbered and also might be a war criminal, at least in Ba Sing Se. 

Longshot misses the forest. Things were a lot simpler there. Not _easy_ , but simple. The Fire Nation was the enemy. Collaborators were the enemy. If they caught you, you were dead, but if they wanted you dead they had to catch you. 

And Jet was in charge, and easy to believe in. 

Longshot remembers shooting Jet, and remembers Jet sparking. 

Jet wasn’t sparking when he shot him. 

His good hand trembles around his bow, and he narrowly dodges another hit from the wild-haired girl in pink. She’s _fast_ and she barely touches the ground, and his dominant hand is shot. This is going to be a nightmare. 

He wants the old Jet back. He wants their _leader_ back, like he almost felt like he had for just a second when Jet was whistling orders and not being brainwashed into _helping the damn Fire Nation_. 

While he’s at it, he supposes he might as well want his parents and their village and everyone else who’s died. 

The girl in pink flips up high in the air and comes down right on top of him. He barely dodges in time, and she jabs for his leg. He has to throw himself to the ground to avoid her, and then he’s only got one arm to shove himself back up with. He kicks out at her knee, hoping to get some space, but she leaps right over it easy as anything. He wants to be helping Smellerbee, but this girl might be more than he can handle. 

This girl is definitely more than he can handle, he corrects as she scores a glancing blow to his calf. His leg goes numb from the knee down and he hits the ground face-first, numb arm twisting badly underneath his body and his few remaining arrows clattering out of his quiver. 

“Geez, you guys are a _pain_ ,” the girl huffs, and Longshot barely rolls out of the way in time to avoid her next strike. She lunges after him, and his hand lands on one of his dropped arrows. 

He needs to kill her. He needs to kill her and he needs to help Smellerbee and he needs to _do something_. 

The girl lunges, and Longshot yanks his bowstring back with his teeth and shoots her point-blank. She jerks her head to the side and his arrow slices across the side of her neck, and she yelps in pain and claps a hand over it. Blood seeps out past her fingers, but not nearly enough blood. Longshot grabs for another arrow. 

He wishes they still had Jet. 

He wishes . . . 

.

.

.

“Toph, please, we _really_ need to find them—” 

“I’m _finding_ them, geez, be _patient_!” 

“This must be what going crazy feels like,” Zuko mutters, rubbing his temples, and Sokka glares at him. Who’s the one going crazy here, _they’re_ the ones working with Prince freaking Zuko right now. 

“Not helping, jerkbender!” he snaps. 

“Wasn’t _trying_ to, boomerang boy,” Zuko retorts. Sokka dearly wishes for a bay to push him into. 

“If you’d both shut _up_ , that would _definitely_ help,” Toph says, scowling mostly in their direction. Sokka scowls back on principle, and Zuko sighs in aggravation. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Sokka’s not gonna be the one to screw up Toph’s . . . whatever she’s doing right now. 

It’s really hard to keep his mouth shut when Zuko’s being a pain, though. 

“Okay,” Toph says, flexing her feet against the ground. “I think we’re good.” 

“Are we actually?” Sokka asks. 

“Am I the greatest earthbender in the world or not?” she snorts. 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure you are, but that doesn’t really answer the question,” Sokka says. Toph makes a face at him. 

“Just get Appa and get moving,” she says. “Who _knows_ what’s going on down there.” 

“Nothing good, if Azula’s there,” Zuko says grimly. 

“Yeah, I am not looking forward to that,” Sokka says frankly. He’s got enough burns right now, thanks so much. “Also, still no idea where the other two are, so _they_ might be down there too.” 

“There’s a thought,” Zuko mutters. 

“Good times, right?” Sokka grimaces. “Are you gonna be able to fight your girlfriend?” 

“She is _not_ my girlfriend,” Zuko says. 

“So that’s a yes, then, or . . . ?” 

“I can fight!” Zuko snaps. 

“Honestly I don’t really believe you on that one but beggars can’t be choosers,” Sokka says. “ _I_ sure as crap can’t do it.” 

“You can’t fight Zuko’s girlfriend?” Toph asks, wrinkling her nose. “Why not?” 

“. . . I didn’t say that, _you_ said that,” Sokka says, feebly hefting his boomerang. 

“Sokka!” 

“Look, just trust me, it is _not_ the time to follow that line of thought,” Sokka says. “We’ve got sisters and Avatars and crazy firebenders to save, okay? Worry about fighting Zuko’s girlfriend later.” 

“She’s _not_ my _girlfriend_!” 

“You might have to tell _her_ that, you realize.” 

.

.

.

The enemies of Ba Sing Se must—

_“Jet,”_ a desperate voice says, and wet hands grab the body’s head. The body jerks. It doesn’t drop its swords. The enemies of Ba Sing Se must— _“JET!”_

That’s not his name. 

That’s not his _name_. 

Jet chokes on air and drops to his knees, vomiting sparks and bile, and Katara follows him down, her water-wrapped hands pressed tight to his temples. 

“Jet,” she says again, and he hates her. Spirits, he _hates_ her. He shouldn’t, she exposed him for the liar he was and the _thing_ he was and protected all the rest of them from the lie of him, from the twisted, warped excuse for a person he was, is, will always be. He should be grateful, but of course he’s this twisted and warped thing and so he’s not. 

He’s been firebending. He’s been acting like it was _normal_. Like it was something he could just _do_. 

There’s an arrow in his shoulder, and he’s not even surprised to find it there. He doesn’t know what he did, but he knows he deserved it. 

“Hold still,” Katara says, and rips the arrow out. He yells in pain; she covers the wound with a wet hand, and then it doesn’t hurt at all anymore, which might be even worse. It _should_ hurt. What he does, what he’s done—it should all hurt, for the rest of whatever miserable excuse of a life he’s going to have. 

It’s supposed to hurt. 

He can’t imagine what his mother saw in him that was worth saving. 

Katara touches the stab wound in his side, and Jet hisses as the skin pulls itself back together under her fingers. His head is clear again, but it doesn’t change anything. He fell for the same stupid mind tricks again, like he’d never broken the original control at all; like all he has in him is this need to hurt and destroy and _ruin_. 

That _is_ all he has in him. Forget the rest, that’s all he’s ever had in him. 

He’s covered in blood, just like he should be, and Katara is trying to make it better like _no one_ should. He almost laughs, but what’s more important is killing every firebender and collaborator down here. 

If he’s lucky, he’ll die trying. 

He shoves himself to his feet, a woozy rush going through his head, and Katara grabs him to steady him. He pushes away from her and locks his knees, only barely managing to stay on his feet. He might’ve lost a lot of blood. He might just still be punch-drunk from the Lake Laogai whammy. 

“Jet—” Katara starts, and he laughs at her. 

“That’s not my _name_ ,” he spits, and she stares up at him with wary eyes. 

“We need you,” she says, and then he _really_ laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. Or a lot. 

“Look at me, Katara,” he says, spreading his arms. There’s still blood all over him, healing water or no. “What about something like _me_ do you _need_?” 

“Anything you’ve got,” Katara says, sweeping past him. He follows her line of sight unthinkingly, and sees Aang dodging a bright sweep of flame. He knows just how to do that move, if he could right now. 

“I can’t bend,” he says. “I can’t even stay in my own _head_.” 

“You’re the one who keeps telling us you don’t need to,” Katara says, passing a wet hand over his arm, and then calls up a wave and crashes across the floor towards Aang. 

Jet tightens his grip on his swords, feeling sparks, and doesn’t know what to do.


	23. the art of letting go

Katara crashes into Azula on a wave and Aang has maybe never been so relieved to see her. The fight’s a mess and he doesn’t know what to _do_. He’s burned and breathless and feels like they’ve never been this badly outnumbered, even knowing they have been, and there’s just too many things to worry about—Azula, Mai and Ty Lee, the Dai Li, Jet, _Katara_ — 

It’s a lot. It’s a lot, and having to figure out what to do while dodging blasts of fire and hurtled rock is _not helping_. 

They’re outnumbered. They’re in trouble. They need _something_. 

The only way is to let her go. 

How is he supposed to do that? How can he possibly? 

He has to. If he can’t let her go . . . 

Aang breathes in, and calls up crystal out of the ground and locks himself inside it, sitting down and squeezing his eyes shut. He has to let go. Of Katara—of _everything_. He has to let go so they won’t _die_. 

That thought makes it really hard to let go. 

He doesn’t know where Longshot and Smellerbee and Iroh are. He doesn’t know what Jet’s doing. He doesn’t know what’s happening to Katara. 

He can hear Azula’s laugh. 

He . . . lets go. 

.

.

.

The crystal walls part in front of them, and Zuko hears the distant sound of shouting and screaming and sizzling water. Toph’s already running ahead out of the tunnel, earth sliding underneath her feet; Sokka hangs back, and stares at him. 

“Seriously,” he says. “Can you do this?” 

“Don’t talk to me,” Zuko says, striding past him. He can do this. As long as he doesn’t _think_ about this, he can do this. He can’t leave Sokka to fight in his condition; can’t leave Uncle to do this alone; can’t leave Jet _period_. 

Can’t think about what he’s doing, because his father is never, ever going to forgive this. 

It’s impossible not to think about this. About the war, and what it’s done, and what his _father’s_ done and what Azula must be doing _right now_ —

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, how is he supposed to do this, how is he supposed to _do_ this, how can he _possibly_ even think of _doing this_ —

“Zuko!” Sokka hisses, and Zuko gasps for breath that won’t come and staggers to a halt, clutching his chest as his heart thunders in his ears. He was wrong. He can’t do this. This means betraying his _nation_. This means betraying his _father_. This means—this means— _“Zuko!”_

He can’t do this. 

“I can’t do this,” Zuko chokes, fingers digging painfully into his chest and not helping at all. How is he supposed to choose between Father and Uncle? How is he supposed to choose between these people and _his_ people? 

“Then don’t come,” Sokka says. “Wait with Appa and the Earth King.” 

“ _You_ should be waiting with Appa and the Earth King,” Zuko manages with a rough, bitter laugh. Sokka’s in no condition to fight. Sokka’s in no condition to fight because _he’s_ the worst firebending master anyone could ever have, because _he_ upset his student to the point of panic, because of _him_. Honor demands that he take responsibility, but taking responsibility means . . . taking responsibility means . . . 

He can’t breathe. 

“Yeah, well, clearly that’s not happening,” Sokka says. He has a hand on Zuko’s arm. Zuko should burn it off him, except Jet already nearly did that, and Jet nearly did that because of _him_. “I’m being serious. Wait with Appa.” 

“You can’t fight,” Zuko says. 

“Neither can _you_ , if you can’t get it together,” Sokka says. “I get it, man, she’s your sister.” 

“We have very different sisters,” Zuko says. It’s not that Azula’s his sister. It’s not like he’s never fought her before. It’s not like she’s never _made_ him fight her before. 

But that was different. That was just them fighting. Fighting her like _this_ , fighting her from the Avatar’s _side_ . . . that’s not the same thing. 

“Obviously,” Sokka snorts. “Mine’s not a freaking psycho who did who knows _what_ to the Kyoshi Warriors and isn’t trying to conquer the entire _world_.” 

“It’s a war,” Zuko says numbly. He wants to say it’s not like that. He wants to say it’s not about _conquering_. 

He doesn’t know if that’s true anymore, though. He doesn’t know if it ever was. 

He gulps in air, and remembers the Avatar trying to be his _friend_ , of all stupid things, and Jet’s sparking, screaming mouth and Sokka’s burned arms and Uncle’s determined face and . . . and . . . _Song_ , even, and Lee, and Jin, and everyone he’s ever met in the Earth Kingdom. Everyone the Fire Nation has burned, one way or another. 

“Yeah, sure,” Sokka says. “If you would be so kind as to remember, though, _we_ were living perfectly happy on the ice before you showed up and the Kyoshi Warriors were cool with staying on their own little island until you burned it down, and Ba Sing Se had plenty of its own problems without Azula sticking her claws in. And also, literally _everything_ that happened in the North Pole. We’re not the ones who keep starting this crap.” 

“It’s a _war_ ,” Zuko repeats, hating the helpless weakness in his voice. 

“Wait with Appa,” Sokka says, squeezing his arm for just a second before stepping back. “Seriously. We’ll be back.” 

Sokka follows Toph, and Zuko . . . Zuko doesn’t know what to do. 

.

.

.

Sokka follows Toph, who it turns out is waiting for him just around the bend. He’s surprised she bothered, being Toph. 

“All good?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Yeah, it’s fine. Zuko just needs a minute.” 

“I’m pretty sure he needs more than a minute,” Toph snorts. 

“Technically true, but we’ve handled plenty of crap without him,” Sokka says, shrugging loosely—and carefully, so he doesn’t jar his arms. “Leaving him behind is not gonna be the straw that breaks the camel-horse’s back.” 

“If you say so,” Toph says. “You done being weird yet?” 

“I plead the fifth,” Sokka says. “Where’re the others?” 

“That way.” Toph points. “There’s a _lot_ of Dai Li.” 

“Awesome, just how I hate it,” Sokka grumbles, pulling out his boomerang. “You ready?” 

“More ready than _you_ , slowpoke,” Toph scoffs. 

“Yeah, fair enough,” he says with a sigh. This is definitely going to hurt, and he’s really not sure it’s going to end well, but _somebody_ has to do it. “Let’s roll.” 

.

.

.

Smellerbee can’t get to Longshot, and the girl with even more knives than she has is driving her back towards the Dai Li. She can’t even get to the _Dragon_ , which would not be her first, second, or thirteenth choice, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She wants _Jet_ , which is the stupidest possible thing to want, and she wants Longshot at her back and the Duke and Pipsqueak and Sneers and all the rest of them, and she wants a forest to hide in and a dam to blow. 

Right now, she’s got to settle for clashing knives and needles and a girl who’s hard to kill. 

Smellerbee lunges; the other drives her back with a spray of senbon she narrowly avoids. The girl presses the advantage, and Smellerbee slashes at her chest and the lie of green she’s wearing. She doesn’t hit, but she slashes again and again, as fast as she can without leaving any openings for a needle to slide into, and the girl slashes back just as fast. Every time their knives hit, Smellerbee hates her even more. 

The first one of them to make a mistake is going to die. 

Smellerbee’s fine with that, personally. She’s always known she’ll die fighting the Fire Nation, and she’s not afraid of killing people. Whichever way this turns out, she’s ready for it. 

It’d almost be easier to die, at this point. 

But Smellerbee isn’t ready to die that easy. 

They break apart, both panting for breath and space, and Smellerbee bares her teeth as the girl with knives looks her over. 

“You’re not as boring as you could be,” the girl muses. 

“Really?” Smellerbee says, flipping the knife in her grip with a savage, bitter grin. “I’ve never been more bored in my _life_.” 

The girl smirks. Smellerbee whips her knife at her face, and throws herself to the side just fast enough not to get skewered by the needles the girl just threw at _her_. She’s aching and exhausted and burning with adrenaline, and the girl’s barely broken a sweat. Of course—she wasn’t the one fighting Dai Li all this time, after all, and if she were tired all she’d have to do would be step back and let them sweep in. Smellerbee does not have that option. 

She misses having people at her back so _bad_. 

The girl twirls a shuriken around her fingers, light and easy. Smellerbee wraps her fingers around the hilt of one of her bigger knives. She still doesn’t have her breath back, but she can already tell she’s not going to have time to get it. This is going to end now, one way or another, and it’s going to be messy and it’s going to _hurt_. 

Smellerbee’s fine with that. 

“Fire Nation scum,” she spits. 

“Guilty,” the girl says in a dismissive monotone, her fists suddenly full of knives. Smellerbee braces herself, and—

And fire _bursts_ against the girl’s back and throws her forward, staggering under the impact. Smellerbee freezes for the one stupid instant an unexpected fire always makes her freeze, then whips the knife in her hand at the flames on pure instinct. Forget that the Dragon is supposedly on their side, forget anything the Avatar said—it’s _instinct_. 

And not an instinct she’s willing to lose. 

She hears her knife hit metal and sees the flames clear, and standing in the center of them with flaming swords is Jet, her knife on the ground at his feet. 

Of course, she thinks. Of course it’s Jet. 

“Need a hand?” he says. His mouth is too tight. His eyes aren’t quite focusing on her face. Smellerbee is so happy to see him, and hates him so _much_. 

“No,” she says, drawing another knife and looking at the Fire Nation girl spilled on the floor between them, her sharp-nailed hands empty and clothes burned all the way through to the armor. She’s dazed, just for the moment; she’s _vulnerable_ , just for the moment. “Just a minute.” 

Smellerbee steps forward, knife raised, and a pair of stone gloves flies at her face. She slashes them out of the air with a shout of fury, and Jet leaps forward, as fast and light as ever, like he barely needs to touch the ground. He brings his butcher-hook swords down and _slices_ , and the bare-handed Dai Li falls back bleeding. 

And burned. 

He’s burned, too. 

If it weren’t for that, she’d almost think it was just like old times. 

“ _Stop_ that!” she shrieks, because she really can’t help it, and Jet breathes out sparks and doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“No,” he says, and then darts ahead into the thick of the Dai Li, a brightly-bladed flame, as much of a lie as the green armor on these girls. Smellerbee could kill him for it. Will kill him for it, eventually. 

But when he whistles orders, she follows him just like every other time. 

.

.

.

Katara doesn’t have a clear line of sight on anyone but Azula, a truly alarming amount of Dai Li, and the little crystal igloo Aang made for himself. She’s not sure what he’s doing in there, but it’s Aang, so she knows it’s important, and she knows she’ll die before she lets anyone else touch it. She hopes the others are okay, but she doesn’t have time or space to actually check up on them. Azula’s not an opponent she can take her eyes off. 

She hopes Jet’s not being an idiot. 

She throws water at Azula, who throws fire back. Wet steam sizzles in the air and they circle each other, both ready to strike. Katara wants to _douse_ her for what she’s done, who she is, what she represents. She wants to put her fire out. 

Azula just wants to hurt somebody, presumably. 

A sudden familiar light bursts into the room, brighter than anything, and Aang rises up out of the crystal pale and shining. 

Katara makes the mistake of taking her eyes off Azula.


	24. see the lightning in your eyes, see them running for their lives

Aang’s lightning-struck body falls out of the air, and Katara throws herself towards him in a wild rush of water, sweeping through the Dai Li in the way. She catches him and they land on the wet ground, water rippling all around them. She clutches him in her arms, and the Dai Li advance. Azula is smirking like she just won the whole war, and Aang is so _limp_ and _heavy_ —

A massive wall of crystal springs up between them, driving the Dai Li back, and suddenly Toph is beside her, grabbing her arm. 

_“Move,”_ she says, but Aang is so _heavy_ — 

The Dai Li come over the wall like a crashing wave, and the ground jerks underneath Katara as it slides back and Toph steps forward into a defensive stance. Sokka’s there, grabbing at her just like Toph, and she stares up at him with wet eyes and doesn’t say what she’s thinking, but Aang is _so heavy_. 

“Sokka,” she chokes, and Aang’s head lolls back on his neck. 

“You have to carry him, Katara,” Sokka says. “We need to run.” 

“Sokka, he’s—” 

“I _know_ ,” he says. “You have to carry him.” 

The wet ground ripples, and Katara gulps back something that wants to be a sob. She has to carry him. They have to run. Even Toph can’t beat that many Dai Li. But—

“Jet,” she says. “And the others—” 

“Come _on_ ,” Sokka says, dragging her to her feet. He’s wincing in pain as he does, his grip weak, and a dull, distant part of her looks for injuries but doesn’t see any. Aang is so heavy in her arms, but she pulls him up off the ground and tightens her grip on him, water twisting in around her feet. She freezes him into her arms. She won’t drop him. Not until it kills her. 

They have to run. 

Azula comes around the side of the wall, fists wreathed in flame and smile sublime. She punches, flames flaring bright and horrible, and Sokka throws himself in front of them as Katara calls up a wave too late to do anything. Sokka _screams_. 

Meltwater runs down Katara’s arms, and no. No, she’s not going to run. 

.

.

.

The girl in pink drops with an arrow in her thigh, her unbound hair falling everywhere, and Jet hears Sokka scream from behind the wall of crystal taking up half the damn floor and coated in Dai Li. The sound is not unfamiliar. 

He whistles orders, because of course he does, and he and Longshot and Smellerbee charge forward into the press of Dai Li, moving fast and never stopping. Hook one, hook another, throw that one into this one, stab this one, slash that one, keep moving don’t stop don’t stop _don’t ever stop_ — 

You never stop. 

They break through the crowd of Dai Li and Jet thinks of his mother’s red-lipped smile and sharp nails and the feel of her knife cutting the topknot out of his hair. He thinks of her voice, and how much she’d wanted to keep him and keep him safe; how selfish and merciless she’d been. The way she’d burned, and the way she’d burned _inside_ , so unafraid and so strong and so— 

It’s really not the time to be wondering if there are things about being Fire that might come in handy. 

They whip around the side of the wall and find Toph fighting the Dai Li and Katara fighting Azula and Aang and Sokka on the ground, Aang a limp dead weight and Sokka curled around his burned and smoking arms, tears of pain streaking his face. Jet does the natural thing, which is to vault right over them and go for Azula’s throat. 

“Oh, you again,” she says, and nearly takes his head off with a rush of blue flame. He slashes his swords through it and bends it to either side, and she sighs in aggravation. “The Earth King—” she starts as a wave of vertigo passes over him, and Katara tackles her around the waist in a messy, undignified move that sends them both sprawling. 

Jet appreciates it, for obvious reasons. He calls fire up the length of his swords, and whistles orders. Longshot and Smellerbee attack the Dai Li; Katara and Azula wrestle on the ground, Azula giving a furious shriek as she tries to claw at Katara’s face with flame-licked nails. 

He guesses people don’t knock her off her game that often. 

Jet goes for Azula, because letting her get back _on_ her game is just about the worst idea he can think of, and she spits fire at his face. He blocks with his swords and sweeps it aside, and she throws Katara off and rolls back to her feet, barely a hair out of place. He wants to kill her, but that’s not a new feeling. 

Fighting beside Katara is, but he doesn’t mind that. That feels _good_. They fall into line together as Azula attacks again, and it’s not as easy as moving with Longshot and Smellerbee but it’s a lot easier than fighting alone. He attacks recklessly, and Katara covers his back with a wall of water. She’s not hard to fight beside at all. 

More concerning, though, is the fact that if Azula says _those words_ again, it won’t be Katara he’s fighting beside. 

Azula opens her mouth, and Katara hits her in it with a splash of ice. Azula makes an outraged sound and melts it right off, but by then Jet’s already lunging at her and she needs to defend. If they can keep it up, she won’t have the breath or room to talk, and he’s _almost_ sure that’s enough of a plan to get by on. 

It’s the best one he’s got, at least. 

And it works, at least for the moment. 

But the Dai Li are still coming and Aang and Sokka are still on the ground and who knows where Iroh is and they’re still this close to getting overwhelmed. 

.

.

.

He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He can’t _do_ this. 

He has to do _something_. 

That’s what Zuko tells himself the whole way to the fight: he has to do something. He can’t just stand by and let whatever’s going to happen happen. He can’t not _fight_. 

He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be fighting. 

He doesn’t know what to _do_. 

And he keeps telling himself that the whole way to the fight, right up until the moment he gets there and sees Azula and Jet crashing together in a rush of flame, clashing blue and orange. 

Zuko lands in the middle of them and they both leap back just fast enough not to get hit. He glares at both of them, struggling for words, for logic, for _sense_ , and Azula smiles and Jet bares his teeth. 

“There you are, Zuko,” she says lightly. “I was wondering if you were ever going to show up.” 

“Get out of my way,” Jet snarls, his swords flickering with flames, and Zuko nearly has a panic attack all over again, but . . . 

But. 

“Traitor,” Azula says in that same light tone. 

_“Monster,”_ Jet says, and she laughs. 

“Oh, Jet,” she says, mockingly pitying. “The Earth King has invited you to Lake Laogai.” 

Zuko blinks at her. What was—she said that before, he remembers, and it doesn’t make any more sense now. What is she _talking_ ab—

_“ZUKO!”_ Sokka shrieks, and that’s all the warning he gets before Jet’s slashing him in the back, bright lines of pain slicing into him. 

“Oh, Zuzu,” Azula says with a smile, a hot ball of flame appearing in her hand. “It didn’t have to come to this, you know. It’s not too late for you to do the right thing.” 

“I am doing the right thing,” Zuko manages, and turns towards Jet just in time to keep from getting his throat slit. The other looks _wrong_ , dead-eyed and panting, and what he’s doing doesn’t make sense, but . . . 

“It’s the Dai Li’s mind control!” Sokka yells. “He can’t control himself!” 

“The Dai Li’s _what_?!” Zuko demands, giving him an incredulous look. 

“What did you _think_ we were talking about Katara healing his head for?!” Sokka demands, and Jet lunges forward with his swords. Zuko throws himself to the side and lands in water, and Jet chases after him. Zuko’s not sure if he should be offended that Jet still hates him this much even under evil earthbender mind control, but it’s not exactly flattering either way. He kicks him in the head, and narrowly avoids being skewered. 

Jet’s not bending, he notices. He was bending when he was fighting Azula, but right now . . . 

Zuko grabs him around the waist and yanks him in close and calls up the breath of fire, and Jet exhales sparks, his empty eyes turning dazed. It’s not his best plan ever, but it’s something. 

“Jet,” he says, and _“Jet!”_ Sokka yells. Jet gets a hook around Zuko’s ankle and yanks him off his feet, and he hits the ground on his injured back with a cry of pain. It hurts. A _lot_. Katara rushes past them both to attack Azula, which is probably the smart thing to be doing right now. Sokka’s trying to get to his feet, the Avatar’s unconscious on the ground, and Toph is struggling under a relentless onslaught of Dai Li with Longshot and Smellerbee beside her. 

_Where’s Uncle?_ he has time to think right before a brilliant burst of flame sends more than a few Dai Li flying, and relief slots into place inside him. Or would, if Jet weren’t trying to punch the sharp hilt of his swords into his _face_. That’s . . . that’s very distracting. 

“You’re a _firebender_ , for spirits’ sake, why don’t you _act_ like one!” he yells up at him, and Jet’s dazed expression warps into _fury_ and then— _then_ he bursts into flame. Of course. 

Zuko is really the worst firebending master anyone could have. 

Also, he really should’ve remembered that Jet has a very different idea of what firebenders are like than he does. 

.

.

.

The enemies of Ba Sing Se must— 

“— _act_ like one!” 

Jet feels fire all over his body and yanks it into his hands and _strikes_. Underneath him, Zuko throws up his arms in defense, the flames breaking harmlessly in the air. Jet blinks down at him for a moment, not understanding, and then leans to the side and pukes up bile and sparks. 

“Okay, great, awesome, that’s probably a good sign,” Sokka says, and then he’s beside him and dragging him off Zuko with burned, shaking arms. They look bad. They look _really_ bad. 

“What happened to _you_?” Jet manages in a daze, and Sokka keeps dragging him. 

“What’s about to happen to _all_ of us so move your jerkbending _asses_!” he snaps. “We need to run!” 

“Run?” Jet says dizzily, and then he’s on his feet and Sokka’s shoving him backwards and Zuko’s next to him breathing in a familiar rhythm and he hears Azula laugh. 

“The things you do, Zuko,” she says in amusement. “I suppose I should thank you for the throne, though! I’m going to _enjoy_ it!” 

Right, Jet thinks dully. Zuko’s the Fire Lord’s son. That’s . . . that’s who Zuko is. 

Zuko’s the Fire Lord’s son, and . . . 

“I don’t care,” Zuko lies, and Azula laughs again. She does that a lot, it seems like. Or maybe something about today is just particularly funny to vicious firebenders who want to overthrow the local government, Jet wouldn’t know. 

He’s not laughing, though. 

And neither is Zuko. 

“I’m gonna kill her now,” Jet says, mouth sparking as he brings up his swords again. 

“Good luck with _that_ ,” Azula says, and then Jet realizes they’re surrounded, all of them. There’s Dai Li on every side. No sign of knife-girl—Mai?—or Ty Lee, though, which gives him a vicious little jolt of satisfaction. He hopes they’re hurting. He hopes they hurt for _months_. 

The Dai Li are definitely still a problem, though. Aang being on the ground and Sokka being that badly injured are also problems. Zuko _existing_ is kind of a problem. 

They’ve got a lot of problems right now. 

“Plan?” Jet says, really hoping someone else has one for once. His head is still throbbing. 

“Knock her down,” Katara says darkly, wiping blood off her mouth. Her sleeve is scorched. The sight of it makes Jet want to put his sword through Azula’s neck. 

It’s not a very helpful plan, unfortunately. Not a bad _idea_ , just not much of an actual _plan_. 

“Well, that’s a start,” he says, eyes trailing over the advancing Dai Li. The fight’s at a lull, at least for the moment, but they’re all ready to attack. They’ll take them down one by one and drag them down to Lake Laogai, if they’re _lucky_. 

They’re not all making it out of here. They’ll be lucky if _any_ of them make it out of here. 

Given the choice, Jet knows who he wants to make it out of here. 

Holding off that many Dai Li, though . . . 

“How many can you take at once?” he asks Zuko under his breath, sliding his eyes to him. The other’s in a defensive stance he doesn’t recognize. He wonders if it’s one of the advanced sets, but it doesn’t look quite right, and—no, it’s not a firebending stance at all, is it. He’s standing just the same way as Katara. 

Huh. 

“Not enough,” Zuko says. 

“Obviously, but I was hoping for an estimate,” Jet says dryly. He rotates his swords, eyes flicking back to the Dai Li. They’re more of a threat than Azula, though that’s exclusively a numbers thing and is only gonna last ‘til the next time she opens her mouth. “What about you, old man?” 

“Not enough,” Iroh says resignedly. “Do you have a plan?” 

“Yeah,” Jet says, rotating his swords again. “The others run. We don’t.” 

“Jet!” Katara protests immediately. 

“I’m down with that,” Sokka says. 

_“Sokka!”_

“What, I didn’t say I _liked_ it.” 

“Traitors to the Fire Nation are typically executed upon capture,” Iroh says neutrally. 

“They execute royalty, now?” Jet shoots him a disbelieving look. That seems like a precedent royalty wouldn’t want to set. 

“He’s talking about _you_ , genius,” Zuko says, and Jet scowls at him. 

“I’m _not_ Fire Nation—” 

“Yes, you are!” Zuko snaps. “And even if you weren’t, you’re still a firebender! No one would believe you!” 

“Fine, whatever, my point still stands,” Jet bites off, because they really don’t have the time to be arguing no matter how stupidly wrong Zuko is. “If _we’re_ Fire Nation, then this is _our_ problem.” 

“We aren’t going to leave you to _die_!” Katara says. 

“So you’d rather the Avatar did?” Jet shoots back. “Who do you think’s more important right now?” 

“ _Everyone’s_ important!” 

“Guys . . .” Toph says, and the Dai Li rush them. Jet curses, and Iroh blasts fire and Toph yanks up stone walls, but that only buys them a few seconds. 

“Get Aang!” Katara shouts, bringing up a wave. 

“Great, just what I wanted to do,” Sokka says. “Hey, has anybody seen the bison whistle?” 

“What the hell good is a _whistle_ right now?!” Smellerbee demands. 

“You would be amazed,” Sokka says as he gingerly pats down Aang’s motionless body and comes up with a white whistle. He blows into it; it doesn’t make a sound. Jet would wonder, but they’re all about to die, so it’s not exactly top of his priorities list. He stabs one Dai Li; trips another; kicks fire at two more. Stone gloves fly at him from too many angles to count, and he only just avoids them. Zuko takes one to the head, and on reflex alone Jet lashes out to cover him as he reels. 

Zuko looks about as surprised about that as he feels. 

And Azula, meanwhile, is just watching them all struggle with a pleased smirk, which really justifies how much Jet already hates her. Looks like the perfect future Fire Lord to him. He guesses she’s Zuko’s sister, but if he had a sister like that he’d _rather_ never go home again. 

Not that he has the option, personally, thanks to people like her. 

“Shot! Bee!” he barks, and whistles a retreat. The kind of retreat he _won’t_ be coming on. 

Longshot hesitates, just for a second, but Smellerbee’s already diving through a gap in the Dai Li and then Longshot immediately rushes after her, the two of them driving a wedge into the crowd. Sokka, fortunately, continues to have some brains and despite his burned arms drags Aang onto his back to bolt after them. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do for pain, Jet knows. He trips another pair of Dai Li and kicks and spits fire and brings down his swords and Toph grabs Katara around the waist and moves the ground under their feet, tearing a rocky path towards freedom. 

_“No!”_ Katara shrieks, but she’s the healer and Aang’s dying, assuming he’s not already dead, and Jet’s been waiting to die for days now. There are worse ways to go. Really, this is the way he’d always expected to go. 

. . . well, the secret police and Fire Nation princess and firebenders _on_ his side are all a bit of a surprise, admittedly. 

Iroh steps forward and sends a huge blast of flame at the Dai Li, and _that_ is definitely an advanced move, and some small and stubborn and stupid part of Jet is kind of jealous he’ll never get to learn it. He breathes out, sparks spilling out of his mouth and smoldering on his shirt, and his back hits—not one of his freedom fighters’ backs, not this time and not ever again, but an ally’s back all the same. 

Zuko’s back. 

“How many can _you_ take?” Zuko manages, out of breath but still breathing in that exact same rhythm. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Jet says with a savage grin, and pushes flame down the length of his swords. If this is going to be his last stand, he’s gonna make damn sure these bastards remember it. And _regret_ it. 

His mother’d wanted him to live, but it’s not like she’d had any room to talk about dying for something. 

“You should’ve run,” Zuko says, and Jet laughs at him. If this is anyone’s mess to clean up, it’s theirs, and this is the best death a firebender could ask for. He doesn’t care about the rest of it. 

The Dai Li part, and Azula steps forward and opens her mouth. Jet braces himself, knowing it won’t help. 

She speaks, but Jet doesn’t hear a word of it over Appa’s roar.


	25. you weren’t born my brother but you’re gonna die that way

They’re not dead, and Jet doesn’t know how to feel. Appa crashed in and blew over half the Dai Li and trampled more than a few of the rest and the next thing Jet knew they were running and then Katara was dragging him up Appa’s side and they were taking off, Iroh covering their retreat from the crowded back of the saddle with blasts of fire. 

So they’re not dead. Jet’s clothes still smell like smoke and there are still sparks behind his teeth and everyone’s hurt and scared and aching, but they’re not dead. 

He doesn’t know how to feel. 

Katara sniffles. The world threatens to end. She pours water out of a vial on her neck and onto Aang’s lightning-burned back, and he just lays there in her lap, still as the grave. How he’s not already dead is beyond Jet, given how long it took them to do anything for his injury; given the fact that his injury was being hit with spiritsdamned _lightning_. 

He might be dead, Jet realizes as Katara starts to cry and the bottom drops out of his stomach. Then Aang’s tattoos start glowing, and he just barely opens his eyes and gives her a weak smile, and she throws her arms around him and sobs into his shoulder. 

They fly over the wall, and the guy with the bear looks back. 

“The Earth Kingdom . . . has fallen,” he says sadly, and Jet gives him an incredulous look. 

“Ba Sing Se is _not_ the entire Earth Kingdom,” he says. Who is this guy? Apparently the Earth King, fine, but _still_. 

“I mean, it’s a pretty significant chunk,” Sokka says. 

“Of course it’s fallen,” Zuko mutters, his head in his hands. “Father sends Azula out to capture the Avatar and she conquers the Impenetrable City for _fun_. Of course.” 

“Yeah, she sucks like that,” Sokka says, patting his back carefully. “Cheer up, man, _technically_ this means she failed. Aang’s looking pretty uncaptured to me, anyway.” 

“He’s _dying_!” Zuko hisses. 

“Did you miss the part where _my_ sister is magic?” Sokka asks. “Relax. Or don’t relax, I don’t know how you feel about this whole mess. Hopefully you’re adjusting to life on Team Avatar by now.” 

“You do _not_ call yourselves that,” Zuko says, looking appalled. 

“In cold blood and everything,” Sokka says. Zuko groans and puts his face back in his hands. 

_“Uncle!”_

“Team Avatar, hm?” Iroh says. “It has a nice ring to it.” 

Zuko glares at him. Jet wonders how they’re not all dead yet. If nothing else, he’d figure Smellerbee would’ve taken care of the problem. But she’s just sitting there on the opposite side of the saddle with Longshot, patching up each other’s wounds like they do after every fight. 

Not Jet’s, of course. Never his again. 

He can’t imagine them ever letting him touch them again, either. 

“We need a place to hide” he says. “A flying bison is not exactly a subtle escape route.” 

“We can go back to the bay,” Sokka says. “We’ll meet up with Dad and the warriors.” 

“Great, we can make another terrible impression on them,” Zuko says dubiously. 

“You did _fine_ , for jerkbenders,” Sokka snorts. “Just don’t burn anything down this time.” 

“I didn’t burn anything down the _first_ time!” 

“Can you two please go back to hating each other, because I kind of hate _you_ as friends,” Toph says. 

“We are _not friends_!” Zuko and Sokka snap at her in unison. Toph looks unconvinced. 

“Keep it down, you two!” Katara is brushing water over Aang’s forehead, but she spares a moment to glare at them. Considering the condition he’s in, Jet’s surprised she restrained herself from splashing them off the saddle. 

“Sorry,” Sokka says with a wince. Zuko looks mutinous, but keeps his mouth shut. 

“How is he?” Jet asks, since that’s the hope of the entire free world lying unconscious in her arms right now. 

“I think he’s okay,” Katara says tentatively. “I mean—not _okay_ , but he’s . . . stable.” 

“That’s good,” Jet says, since that’s probably the best they can hope for. If they’re lucky, they’ll have time to let him recuperate, but since their lives are their lives, they’ll just be lucky if they make it back to the bay without getting blasted out of the sky. “You got any of that healing water left for the rest of us? Mostly Sokka.” 

“Oh— _Sokka_ ,” Katara says wretchedly, turning towards him, and he holds a burned hand up in a quelling gesture. He’s the one driving the bison, so Jet’s pretty sure they need him fixed up quick. 

“It’s okay, I can wait,” Sokka says, like an idiot. 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Katara says, and that’s how Jet ends up with an armful of Avatar as Katara clambers into the front of the saddle with water-wrapped hands. Why _he_ was the choice for that is beyond him. Aang stays limp in his arms, but at least isn’t dead weight, so Jet assumes that’s a good sign. 

Airbenders breathe weird, he decides distractedly, flicking his eyes away from Aang to watch Katara settle down beside Sokka. She frowns down at his arms, turning the closer one over carefully. 

“This doesn’t look right,” she says. 

“You sure? Because it hurts just fine,” Sokka says. 

“No, I mean—never mind,” she sighs, and covers the damage with the water in her hands. Jet watches in morbid fascination as the burns slowly heal under the treatment, leaving only scar tissue behind. Could’ve used some of _that_ in the forest. Sokka reclaims his arms and flexes testingly, then grins at Katara. 

“That is _so_ much better,” he says. “Thanks, Katara.” 

“Nothing hurts?” she says. She looks tired. Jet wonders how much the healing thing takes out of her, especially after a job like the one she had to do on Aang. 

“No, I’m good.” Sokka shakes his head. The scars cover his palms and go all the way up to his elbows; Jet can’t imagine how he was able to wait so long to get healed, and mentally ups his estimation of the other’s pain tolerance. 

“Good,” Katara says in relief, then comes back to Aang’s side and runs a hand over his forehead again, giving him a worried look before lifting her eyes to Jet’s. “Are you hurt?” 

“Uh—me?” Jet says, bemused that she’d ask. “I’m fine. Nothing worse than a sunburn and some bruises.” 

“Okay.” Katara exhales, then looks around the saddle. “Everybody else okay? Zuko, how’s your back?” 

“It’s fine,” Zuko lies as various nods and affirmations meet her, and she sighs, relieved again. Jet sort of wants to kiss her, but he’s damn sure he doesn’t deserve to. He also sort of wants to hit Zuko for being an idiot, but for once he’s pretty sure _he_ doesn’t deserve _that_. 

He still doesn’t know how to feel about not being dead. 

He’d felt pretty good about dying, when he’d thought it was going to let him do the right thing. 

.

.

.

They land in Chameleon Bay, and Sokka and Katara’s father and his second—or just their fathers, maybe—meet them on the beach. They take the Avatar into camp and Zuko hangs back in the saddle with Uncle, who for obvious reasons is waiting to be introduced before he makes himself known. Jet climbs out past them, unconcerned; Zuko keeps a wary eye on him just in case. Jet seems to be under control now, though, and he doesn’t need his teacher hanging over his shoulder constantly. 

Zuko thinks he’s still his teacher, anyway. Admittedly, Jet might feel differently about things. But _someone_ needs to help him, and he’s the one who bent his fire without consent, and . . . 

He doesn’t know if Jet even knows those rules, much less has any intention of abiding by them. 

He should ask him about that, probably. 

“I am glad you’ve done the right thing, Nephew,” Uncle says quietly, resting a hand on his arm. “You chose the path of good, and I am very proud of you.” 

“I refuse to call it Team Avatar,” Zuko mutters. It doesn’t _feel_ like the right thing. 

It doesn’t feel like the wrong one either, is the problem. 

Uncle smiles and squeezes his arm. Zuko doesn’t really know how to feel about it. Or . . . any of this, really. 

He just . . . he couldn’t side with Azula. Not after everything else. Not after all her tricks and lies, and all the destruction and damage and _suffering_ and everything he’s seen. 

Not after he bent Jet’s fire and got Sokka burned and couldn’t even do anything to help in the end, really. He _didn’t_ do anything to help; he just didn’t help _Azula_. Is that supposed to be the path of good? Betraying their nation? Betraying their people, their _family_? Betraying them _incompetently_? He knows they’re wrong, but they’re still . . . they’re still . . . 

It just doesn’t feel good. Isn’t doing the right thing supposed to feel good? Though maybe his bloody back’s got something to do with that, admittedly. 

But they’re their _family_. It’s not like they’re spoiled for that, either. 

. . . he really needs to ask Jet if he understands those rules. 

“Are you going to teach the Avatar how to firebend?” he asks. 

“If he asks me,” Uncle says. “Would you?” 

“He won’t ask _me_ ,” Zuko snorts. Everyone’s seen how badly he’s handled things with Jet. Besides, who’d ask him for training when Uncle is right there? 

“Perhaps you are right,” Uncle says, looking across the beach to the Water Tribe camp. Zuko looks too, not really sure what else to do. He’d be a terrible firebending master. He _is_ a terrible firebending master. 

Besides that, the Avatar’s in no condition to be learning _anything_ right now, much less an entire new bending discipline. Who even knows how long it’ll be until he recovers, or if he’ll fully recover at all. 

And teaching him how to fight _Father_ would be . . . 

Zuko shakes off the thought, because there’s no room for it right now. Or ever. He’ll never go home again, and he’ll be a dishonorable disgrace for as long as he lives. That’s . . . that’s how it’s going to be. 

That’s how it _is_. 

He breathes out, and stands up in the saddle. Sokka’s talking to Bato, pointing towards them with a newly-scarred arm. Zuko can’t hear what he’s saying, but assumes it’s ridiculous. Sokka sees him standing up and waves, then makes a beckoning gesture. Zuko tries not to grimace and hops down to the ground. Uncle follows him. 

“You’re the Dragon of the West,” Bato says, looking a little bemused. 

“Indeed I am,” Uncle agrees with a nod. “If it’s troublesome to have me in your camp . . .” 

“We hosted the Fire Lord’s son and his student,” Bato says with a wry smile. “I think we’ll manage.” 

“We’d kind of better, we need _somebody_ to teach Aang how to jerkbend,” Sokka says. “No offense.” 

“None taken,” Uncle says graciously. Zuko makes a face at Sokka, who makes one back. They are definitely _not_ friends. Bato leads them into camp, and they glimpse Katara disappearing into a tent, presumably with the Avatar. Aang. Zuko supposes he should get used to calling him that. 

He’s pretty sure he never will. 

.

.

.

Jet walks into camp in scorched blue clothes like everything’s normal, because it’s not any different than it was the other day. Longshot and Smellerbee aren’t looking at him, which isn’t any different from the other day either. 

He . . . needs to talk to them, probably. Needs to tell them some stuff. 

They’re probably not gonna like it. 

He’s not sure _he_ likes it, so . . . 

“I’m paying attention to you,” Toph says warningly from beside him, and he wonders how she knew. “Don’t think I can’t bend sand if I have to.” 

“You’re not gonna have to,” Jet says, and leaves to walk over to the other two. They both watch him. Longshot’s not tense, but that doesn’t matter. Smellerbee’s _very_ tense, but that doesn’t matter either. It’s the same reaction, just different approaches. 

They could both kill him just as fast, he means. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you.” 

“You lie a lot,” Smellerbee says, giving him a mulish look. “We were stupid not to think you’d be lying about that too.” 

“ _I_ was stupid not to think that,” Jet says with a humorless smile. She’s right; they should’ve known. _He_ should’ve known. 

Apparently trauma can do some truly amazing crap to somebody. 

“We’re lucky you didn’t burn down the whole forest,” Smellerbee says, and she’s right. He probably _would’ve_ burned down the whole forest, if he’d ever remembered. 

“Listen,” he says. “I was ready to die in there.” 

“We heard you,” Smellerbee says, and Longshot’s expression says the same thing. “You’ve been ready to die for as long as we’ve known you. Not that we ever knew you, apparently.” 

“No,” Jet says, just looking at her. “I guess you didn’t.” He didn’t know _himself_ , so of course nobody else did. Not anybody left alive, anyway. 

Smellerbee glares at him. Her eyes are wet. Longshot just looks tired, but there’s an obvious resolve in him. They both shift their weight, and he knows they’re expecting him to follow them behind one of those tents and just . . . let it be over. Let it all go. 

There’s so much to let go. 

“I need to do something,” he says, and Smellerbee and Longshot frown. He’s off-script, he knows, but—well. Some things go off-script, don’t they. “This is—if I’m one of them, this is my fault too.” 

“Obviously,” Smellerbee says, because it is obvious. 

“If it’s my fault, I have to do something about it,” Jet says, and maybe that part’s not so obvious because the other two just look confused. “I can’t just . . . give up. I have to keep fighting.” 

“You’re going to stay,” Smellerbee realizes. 

“Until it kills me,” Jet confirms. Her face twists, and her shoulders hunch. 

“You’re not Jet,” she spits out. “Jet would _never_.” 

“Jet’s an idiot,” Jet says. Jet’s not even his real name. 

Not that he wants called by the other one, obviously. 

“Traitor,” Smellerbee hisses. It sounds a lot different coming out of her mouth than it did Azula’s. 

“Maybe,” Jet says, the words ash in his mouth. “But I’m still going to stay. If there’s something I can do about this, I’m going to do it.” 

Longshot gives him a long, inscrutable look. He’s usually so easy to read that Jet doesn’t know what to think of it, and he looks back at him a little warily. Maybe Longshot’s just going to kill him. He wouldn’t blame him. Longshot probably _should_ just kill him. 

But his mother wanted him to live, and he isn’t an innocent in this war, either as Jet or as that other name, and . . . 

“I have to do this,” he says. Longshot looks at him for a moment longer, then just . . . nods, slowly, and steps back. Smellerbee’s teeth bare. 

“You’re one of them,” she says. “They don’t _care_ what they’ve done.” 

“I care,” Jet says, and he really, really does. 

.

.

.

Jet’s sitting next to a cookfire, staring into it. His freedom fighters are on the other side of it, doing the same thing. Toph’s standing a few feet away, frowning suspiciously. Zuko heads over, because, well . . .

“I need to talk to you,” he says, and Jet gives him a blank look. 

“Seriously?” he asks. _“Why?”_

“It’s a firebending thing,” Zuko says uncomfortably. Smellerbee and Longshot stiffen. Jet just looks tired. 

“There’s always another damn firebending thing, isn’t there,” he says. 

“This is different,” Zuko says. “It’s about what happened under Lake Laogai.” 

“The brainwashing?” Jet squints at him. “What’s _that_ got to do with firebending?” 

“Probably a lot, since you don’t bend when you’re under it,” Zuko says. “But that’s not what I meant.” 

“I—don’t?” Jet blinks. 

“You don’t,” Zuko says, then glances at the others. “We should go somewhere.” 

“I don’t care if they hear,” Jet says. “Why should I care if they hear?” 

“I’m going to say something you won’t like,” Zuko says. Jet doesn’t look moved, though, so he keeps talking. “Do you remember the rules about bending someone else’s fire?” 

“You don’t,” Jet says. 

“I did,” Zuko says. Jet . . . frowns. 

“So you’re an asshole,” he says. “What else is new?” 

“You don’t remember.” Zuko forces his hands to stay still; to not twist in anxiety or restlessness. 

“There’s a lot I don’t remember,” Jet says. “I remember you don’t bend someone else’s fire, though. Not outside a fight. Not unless you’re—” 

His eyes flare, suddenly, and Zuko’s pretty sure that’s him remembering the rest of it. 

“That’s why,” Jet says. “What your uncle was talking about. You did all this because of _that_?” 

“Not just that,” Zuko says, because there was so much more to it, too. Jet was just . . . the last straw, he supposes. “A lot more than just that.” 

“I’m not one of you people,” Jet says derisively. “I’m barely even your _student_.” 

“You are,” Zuko says, because he knows it’s not that easy to just cut out a part of yourself. “Even if that’s not the only thing you are.” 

Jet laughs. It sounds as awful as his laugh always does. 

“We’re going to die in this war, you know,” he says. “We’re going to die _together_ , if we’re not careful.” 

“I’m never going home,” Zuko says, kneeling beside him. Jet sneers at him, but his breath changes, and then they match, inhale and exhale. He wonders if the other even noticed doing it. 

“You people _burned_ my home,” Jet says, and Zuko . . . he thinks, briefly, about his mother and that awful Agni Kai and how bad his face hurt for so long and how he was never, ever going to be able to please his father, and thinks he understands the feeling a little. Or maybe he doesn’t, and he’s just projecting. 

“You’re my student,” he says. “I’m responsible for you.” 

“You’re really not,” Jet says. “And _I’m_ really not.” 

“Those are the rules,” Zuko says. “Unless you’re the other thing.” 

“I think your family’s messed up enough without you adopting a freedom fighter,” Jet says, smirking humorlessly. 

“Adopting?” Toph says with a frown. 

“Yeah,” Jet says casually, not looking at her. Zuko supposes it doesn’t matter, to Toph. “It’s a firebender thing. You don’t bend somebody else’s fire outside of a fight without permission unless you’re their teacher or their family. And if you’re _not_ , then you’d better be real quick.” 

“I’m sorry, is Zuko your _dad_ now?” Toph asks with a cackle, grinning widely. Zuko reddens in embarrassment. 

“Sadly, he’d be a better option than the one I had,” Jet snorts. “But no. We’d be, like, cousins or something. Or we’d get married, but _hah_ , no.” 

“I guess that’s one way to overthrow the Fire Nation,” Toph says, grin turning sly. Jet rolls his eyes. Zuko considers just . . . walking into the bay. And staying there. 

“We’d be cousins,” he says firmly. Or siblings, but he _really_ doesn’t want to get into that. Especially not if Jet’s not going to. “It’s a firebender thing.” 

“It’s a very weird thing, I hope you realize,” Toph says. “Like, super weird.” 

“It’s just what we do,” Zuko says, embarrassed again. It’s basic etiquette. Basic _decency_. 

“Yeah, sure, why not,” Jet says. “I’ve done stupider.” 

.

.

.

So Jet is a royal firebender’s cousin now, sort of. Unless he’s his student, anyway, but he’s pretty sure they’d kill each other if they actually kept that particular dynamic going, and if he’s actually feeling stupid enough to try and learn any of the advanced sets he’d be better off asking Iroh. 

So Smellerbee and Longshot still haven’t forgiven him and probably won’t ever, but haven’t killed him yet. 

So he’s with the Avatar now. 

So he’s taking responsibility, now. 

He’s not Fire Nation. Not really. Except he _was_ , once upon a time, and that part of him . . . that part’s still there. It’s different, but it’s there. Some dumb little colony brat who didn’t know any better with a different name. 

As long as that part’s there, he needs to keep fighting. He owes it to the world, and maybe even to himself. He’s got better things to die for than just being . . . whatever he is now. An Earth Kingdom firebender, or a Fire Nation traitor, or something nobody’s got a name for yet. 

His mother wanted him to live, Jet remembers. 

He guesses that means more than just surviving. 

He sits up late on the beach, long after everyone else has gone to bed, and he waits for the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
